


The One We'll Create

by amscray_punk



Series: Sweet Prince [1]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Friendship, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Medieval-ish, Nothing explicit, Race and Katherine are royal siblings, Romance, Seriously good friends here guys, Will probably add more tags as this goes along, prince AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:42:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 43,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25843756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amscray_punk/pseuds/amscray_punk
Summary: Anthony and Katherine Pulitzer are the prince and princess of Manhattan, children of King Joseph. Race is set to be married and assume the throne in a matter of days, whether he wants to or not. (Spoiler: he doesn't)*So this is different! It's medieval-ish, as the tags say, no specific time period and the language is... fairly modern, please don't come for me. Rating is for some language, violence and sexual references/suggestive language (although there's nothing explicit, I promise). Completed as of 8/23/20!
Relationships: David Jacobs/Jack Kelly, Sarah Jacobs/Katherine Plumber Pulitzer, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Series: Sweet Prince [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1917310
Comments: 116
Kudos: 113





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi hi! I'm really excited to start sharing this. It is kind of inspired by a writing prompt on tumblr, but I don't want to share which one yet as it's a little spoiler-y. As of now, I'm planning eight chapters, but that has potential to change. Also, these chapters are looong, I'm sorry if that's not your thing. Questions, comments, I'm here for all of it! Thanks for clicking & without further ado, let's go!

_“And do you, Prince Anthony, take this woman…”_

_Race can’t breathe. His head whips around as he desperately tries to understand what’s happening; he’s in the chapel but he’s not in a pew. No, he’s in front of the congregation and he’s dressed for a wedding – oh, God, clasped in his hands are those of the mystery woman in front of him, a flowing lace veil obscuring her identity. He doesn’t recognize his own voice as the words slip, unbidden, from his lips, “I do.” He’s lifting her veil, revealing her stunning gown inch by inch, pale expanse of neck gives way to nondescript chin… where her mouth should be the skin remains smooth, polished, empty… the veil drops from his fingers, revealing the faceless woman who is leaning toward him…_

Race sat straight up, gasping as the world spun into clarity. He was alone in his bed, half-covered by a heavy blanket, drenched in sweat. He sucked in large gulps of air as his heartrate began to slow; it was just a dream. With a groan, he fell back into his soft feather-stuffed mattress and closed his eyes again. The nightmares had been coming more frequently as of late, the nearer he drew to his twenty-second birthday. There was only a week left, now.

_Soon, it won’t be just a dream._

Forcing the faceless woman from his mind, Race stretched out his long limbs and blinked his eyes open, fixing them on the stone ceiling. In seven short days, he would reach twenty-two years of age. And in five, he would be married – against his will, but will meant next to nothing in the realm of King Joseph Pulitzer, even for the crown prince. In five days, he would become king, whether he wanted to or not. For the last two years, his father had presented him with match after match, and Race turned them all down. He always managed to find at least one critical flaw in each of them, and his father grew more exasperated with each refusal. Finally, the king had revoked Race’s veto power and made the decision himself: Princess Lily of Richmond would become Queen of Manhattan, ruling alongside King Anthony. _Ugh. King Anthony._ The thought alone left a bad taste in his mouth.

Race sat up again, reaching for the heavy pitcher of water next to his bed; he tipped it up and drank until it was empty, but he was still parched. Grimacing, he eyed the two empty wine bottles next to the pitcher – it’s possible there was a good reason for his dehydration and grogginess. Maybe even the dreams, too. Although, he knew he couldn’t blame those entirely on the liquor. He was terrified to get married, even more than he was to become king. His father had assembled a strong team of advisors over the years, so he didn’t worry about making decisions for the kingdom. He worried about having a wife, and all that entailed.

For as long as he could remember, Race had never been interested in girls. As a young boy, when he was instructed to spend less time with his sister, Katherine, and her ladies and more time with the page boys his own age, he hadn’t complained. In fact, he had seized the opportunity to spend time with his friends: page boys Jack and Albert and the stablemaster’s son, Davey. Albert and Davey were Race’s age; Jack was a few years older. Davey had his own set of responsibilities at the stables, but he would join the other three for free time when he could, and sometimes for training. King Pulitzer insisted any and all able-bodied boys on his grounds knew how to fight, although Davey much preferred the quiet of the library or the familiarity of the stables. When Race would tire of his royal responsibilities, he would take off to find Davey, eager for his calming presence. If he couldn’t find him in the library or the stables, he would run to his family’s cottage on the grounds, climb in the window of the bedroom Davey shared with his sister, Sarah, and crawl under his bed to wait for him. This habit had enraged his father, until he figured out that Race wasn’t running away, merely escaping the pressure and that, at least, the king could understand. He’d chided his son for giving his nanny the slip, but his eyes sparkled when he called him his little Racer, a name shortly adopted by nearly the whole castle. After that, no one worried much when the prince would disappear – he always came back.

Albert and Jack came to the castle as children, and they would speak with stars in their eyes of becoming knights; wearing the shiny armor, wooing the ladies, defending their kingdom. The three of them were thick as thieves, training together first with wooden swords and then, when they grew into teens, real blades and arrows as they practiced swordsmanship and archery. They had gone on more hunting trips than Race could count; Albert and Jack were the best hunters of all the squires but Race was abysmal. It made no sense, as he was every bit as good as Jack with a sword, and better than the lot with a bow. The truth was, Race had a hard time hunting for sport. They had enough meat stored in the castle to last them weeks, months, most likely; he couldn’t justify putting an arrow through a deer for the fun of it. Couldn’t really find it in himself to _see_ the fun in it. So he’d miss on purpose, trudging through the brush, his usually light tread deliberately heavy and loud, scaring off as many woodland creatures as he could manage without drawing suspicion. Jack would shoot him a look over a shoulder, Race would shrug good-naturedly; Jack would huff and roll his eyes, but he was never able to hide the spark of amusement behind them. Race would cast his eyes downward, feigning shame when he’d turn up at the castle emptyhanded. “Can’t hit a moving target, I s’pose,” He’d offer as an excuse; his father would tut and correct his grammar, but he’d let the subject drop. He was never as hard on Race as he was on Katherine.

If he were honest, Race didn’t even realize he was _supposed_ to be interested in girls until he was around sixteen, and the other squires would talk about the pretty ladies-in-waiting, which usually included Sarah, even though she wasn’t technically a lady. Race assumed he didn’t have these thoughts about them because of his near-familial bond with Davey’s sister, but some of the things he overheard the other squires say were… shocking, to say the least. But when he was with Jack and Albert and Davey, he felt normal. They didn’t talk about girls in the same way, and he was relieved about that. It wasn’t until about a year later that he realized _why_ they didn’t; and he learned why he always seemed to catch Albert’s curious gaze lingering on him.

A sharp rap at the heavy wooden door startled him from his thoughts.

“Aye, Racer,” Jack, his best friend, now a knight and his personal bodyguard, called through the door. He must be alone; even he was required to address Race by his official title in company. “Are you awake?”

Jack didn’t wait for an answer as he pushed the door open, looking unsurprised when he saw Race still in bed. His brow furrowed slightly in concern when he noticed the empty bottles, but he said nothing. Jack was one of a handful of people who knew why Race didn’t want to marry, and he wouldn’t begrudge him his coping mechanism, no matter how unhealthy. Jack was dressed in his off-duty attire, a simple tunic and pants, although his sword was prominent on his hip, as always. Race reached out, looking longingly toward the flask on Jack’s belt. With a huff, Jack handed it to him; Race didn’t even know if it was water or liquor, and frankly, he didn’t care. It was easier, lately, to get through the days with a little help. He couldn’t help the sting of disappointment when he tipped the flask up and found water. Oh, well – his liver would thank him, at least.

He drained the flask, offering Jack a cheeky, mostly apologetic look when he handed it back. He ran a hand through his blonde curls, tangled from tossing and turning, and sighed.

“Why so weary, sweet prince?” Jack’s tone was teasing, but Race didn’t miss the undercurrent of concern. Race grunted in response, throwing back the covers and standing, raising his arms in a languorous stretch. Normally, he would love having his days stretch out in front of him, no responsibilities as far as the eye could see. But now, without a structured schedule to keep him distracted, all he could think about were his impending nuptials, and the swift change that would come with them.

He shrugged a shoulder, uncharacteristically quiet as he dressed to match Jack. Today, his future bride would arrive and tomorrow, there would be a banquet in her honor – well, _their_ honor, he supposed. For all intents and purposes, this was his last day to run free, to do as he wished. _What do I wish?_ He huffed a bitter laugh, ignoring Jack’s questioning eyebrow. If he were honest about what he wished for, his father would toss him in the dungeons and throw away the key. But, he reminded himself as he looked back at Jack, who was lounging on the end of his bed, he _did_ have today. His father was busy as usual, and he felt a spark in his chest, a spark of excitement, of possibility. Fighting back the intrusive thought that this was probably the last one he would have, he walked to the bowl on the dresser and splashed his face with water, dried off with a rag and spun to face his friend.

“Let’s have a day, Jackie,”

Jack’s eyebrows rose. “A day?”

“A day, indeed,” Race went on enthusiastically, crossing to look out the window. His room was in the west tower, overlooking the rolling grounds that held the Jacobs’ cottage and the stables. He could see Davey now, trudging to the stables from the well, bucket in hand. He felt Jack arrive at his side, and he didn’t need to look at his friend to know he was watching Davey intently. “Tomorrow, the royal wedding duties begin in earnest, and I want one more day to pretend,” He could have finished the sentence, _to pretend I don’t have responsibilities, to pretend I’m not getting married_. But it was unnecessary; he had no secrets from Jack. Suddenly, he felt Jack’s hand on his shoulder, reassuring in its pressure.

“Your wish is my command, Your Highness,” Jack’s tone was lightly teasing but no less sincere, a radiant grin on his handsome face when Race turned to look at him. “Where to?”

“Well,” Race paused, having fun with it, now. “I suppose we ought to begin with some breakfast. Then, I’d quite like to take a ride along the river, I think.” He poked a finger in Jack’s chest. “And bring your sword, because I want to practice.” Jack rolled his eyes at this; they were both armed full-time, and Race nearly always had a dagger or two tucked into his boot. “And then… well, then I thought we might head into town…” He trailed off, heat curling up the back of his neck despite present company.

“To town?” Jack feigned surprise, furrowing his brows. “Why would we need to go to town?”

Race shrugged a shoulder, trying to appear casual. “I have a few things to pick up from the forge.”

“Uh huh,” Jack shoved him lightly, backing away toward the door. “I’m sure you do.”

After a hearty breakfast, Race and Jack strolled across the lush castle grounds. It was early summer, and the late morning air was beginning to grow thick and humid. They poked their heads into the stables, searching unsubtly for Davey. Instead, they found Crutchie, a teenaged stable boy with a bum foot who walked with a rudimentary crutch. Race remembered wrinkling his nose at the name, finding it unimaginative and, well, rather cruel. But Crutchie took it in stride, as he did everything else, and found a way to make the name his, rather than fighting against it. Now, Race could hardly remember his real name. Crutchie stood up as straight as he was able when he saw them approach, giving a small bow in Race’s direction, who waved off the gesture. He often found himself embarrassed by royal customs; what was so special about him? He’d been born, same as anyone else, only he’d had the fortune of having been born to a king and queen. Why should that matter?

“Morning, Crutchie,” Jack greeted him; Crutchie’s eyes lit up. Jack was something of a hero to the younger boys on the grounds. It was unsurprising, really; he was their most accomplished knight, the best swordsman in the kingdom – by a hair, Race never failed to remind him – and it didn’t hurt that he was classically handsome, all perfectly-tousled brown hair, square jaw and sparkling hazel eyes.

“Good morning, Your Highness, Sir Jack,” He nodded at Race, then Jack. “What can I do for you?”

“You can tell us where Davey is, for one,” Jack replied, attempting – and for the most part, succeeding – to look nonchalant as he glanced around Crutchie, into the stables. Only Race, who knew Jack better than anyone, noticed the eagerness in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders.

“Ah, he’s out giving Pomme a bath,” Crutchie motioned with the arm that wasn’t gripping his crutch. Pomme was Davey’s horse, who he’d had since he was a young teen. Race had been studying French at the time, sharing his lessons with Davey, who absorbed knowledge like a sponge. Davey had been struggling to choose a name for his new horse, and Race had suggested Pomme one afternoon as they lazily fed her apples. They’d doubled down on the joke when Race had gotten his new horse the next year and he promptly named her Apple. Jack followed Crutchie’s motion with his eyes, while Race kept his on Jack; there was something thrilling about seeing that spark in them when they landed on Davey. Perhaps it was the fact that it was a secret; even more of a secret, he supposed, than his own. Jack had never explicitly discussed his feelings for Davey, but to Race, they were obvious. Jack’s demeanor changed infinitesimally when Davey was around; he was still his loud, boisterous self, but his gaze would flit to Davey after every joke, to see if he was laughing; he would instinctively stand nearer to him, as though his job were to protect Davey and not Race; and he seemed to find any excuse to touch him, even if it was just to brush a piece of straw from his hair.

“Thanks, kid,” Jack ruffled Crutchie’s hair affectionately.

“Your Highness, would you like me to get Apple ready for you?”

Cringing internally at the use of _Your Highness_ , Race nodded, picking up an apple from the barrel near the entrance and taking a large bite. “Yes please, Crutchie. Thank you.” He smiled at the stable boy, who hurried off to fetch Race’s horse. He grabbed another apple as they left the stables, walking back out into the sunshine toward their friend. Davey lifted a hand in greeting as they approached, taking a step back from Pomme, who stood obediently. Race approached her calmly, always exercising caution even though she knew him nearly as well as she knew Davey, and he stroked her silky neck as he offered up the apple.

“Hey, pretty girl,” He murmured as she chomped on her treat. Race loved animals, and always had – perhaps that explained his dreadful hunting skills.

Davey and Jack were chatting quietly, a few feet away, when Crutchie called for Race from the stables, where he held Apple by her lead. He jogged over to meet them, snatching another apple, lest she feel left out. Race politely asked Crutchie to ready Jack’s horse, Sully, before he turned back to Apple, running his hands along her side affectionately. When she finished her treat, he climbed up, settling in and relishing the familiarity. This was normal; this would never change, even when he was married. _Married._ He swallowed hard and tried his best to push the thought away.

“Davey!” He called; Davey’s head snapped up immediately, and Race didn’t miss the pale blush high on his cheekbones. He fought the urge to roll his eyes; these two were absolutely clueless. “I thought we might take a ride along the river, today. For old time’s sake,” He added, trying to imbue his words with unsaid meaning. Davey nodded and picked up the bucket of water, which Jack hastily grabbed from him and took back to the stables, along with the other bathing supplies. Race chuckled under his breath, guiding Apple over to the river that ran along the west side of the grounds, where they waited patiently for Jack and Davey to join them.

They rode leisurely, three deep, along the curve of the river in the blazing sun until, mercifully, they reached the edge of the forest. Once they entered, they would no longer be on castle grounds; they would still be on Manhattan land, but they would be away from the bustle of the castle, where they were free to behave as they wished. Up until about a year ago, their trio would have been a quartet; Jack and Davey riding side-by-side in front, Race and a grumpy redhead bringing up the rear. But ever since his knighting ceremony, Albert had given Race a wide berth. He supposed it was a good thing, meaning Albert was taking his oath seriously, but he couldn’t help mourning the loss of his friendship, at the least. Sometimes he missed the physical aspects of their relationship, but that was more out of a desire for companionship than any romantic feelings. No, if he had romantic feelings for anyone… well, he didn’t want to think about that, just now. Even if he weren’t betrothed, _that_ would never happen.

They followed the river into the woods, all three letting out grateful sounds when they stepped into the shade of the trees. They passed a few children playing in the shallow current, shock evident on their faces as they realized they were in the presence of royalty; Davey chuckled when they bowed clumsily, ‘Your Highness’ sounding much cuter to Race’s ears in their little voices. Race laid a solemn hand over his heart and bowed his head to them as they passed, and the children tore out of the forest in a titter, giggling and shouting. Jack shook his head, staring after them.

“God, can you even remember being that young?”

“Ha,” Race huffed, half in surprise. Absently, he reached a hand down to rub Apple’s neck, the motion familiar, calming. Of course he could remember; those were some of the happiest, most carefree days of his life. While Race was painfully aware of his privilege and the comfortable life he led, there were parts of him he’d almost always had to hide, save from a few remarkable people. He’d always known he would eventually become king, and part of that would include marrying a princess. But back then, the idea of marriage was so abstract that it was easy enough to forget in favor of goofing off in the woods with his friends, swimming in the river, fighting with wooden swords. “’Course I remember. Wish I could go back, sometimes.” Race easily slipped out of proper pronunciation when he was around Jack and Davey, a habit he occasionally forgot to correct when in his father’s company.

Maybe it was Race’s upcoming wedding, and its inevitability, but neither Jack nor Davey prodded at him, called him on the innate truth of his statement. They both knew how much he had struggled to accept his predetermined future, especially as they inched nearer to his birthday and the cutoff. They both knew _why_ Race, the golden boy of Manhattan, beloved by nobility and commoners alike, balked at the idea of marrying a beautiful princess. And they both knew he had been dealing with these facts in somewhat unsavory ways, but they couldn’t offer him a better solution. Davey simply hummed in agreement, while Jack nodded, uttering a soft, “Me too, Racer,” that Race barely heard over the crunching of twigs beneath their horses’ hooves.

They lapsed into silence as they rode, occasionally pointing out areas where they used to play. The river took a sharp turn away from them and they stopped, rather abruptly. Race jerked his chin at the trees, opposite the direction of the river. “Remember what’s over there?”

Davey frowned slightly, looking between Jack and Race. “Wasn’t it… a-“

“A witch,” Jack interrupted, eyes twinkling as he grinned. “She was s’posed to be a hundred years old when we were kids, right? Wonder how she’s aging these days.”

Race laughed, glancing up through the trees to find the sun in the sky. He and Jack would have to practice later. “I think we should head back, anyway.”

“You’re not afraid of the witch, are you Racer?” Davey teased even as he nudged Pomme to turn around, heading back toward the castle.

“I’m not afraid of anything,” Race shot back instinctively, the levity in his tone giving him away as they fell into an easy pace, the river on Race’s right side, now. “I just have to get to town soon.”

“Oh?” Davey’s voice went up a touch at the end. “What on earth could you possibly need from town that you couldn’t send a servant for? I mean, you have… how many of them?” Davey leaned toward Jack, laughing as Race swiped at him. “How many _packages_ are you picking up today?”

“You motherf-“

“Hey, hey,” Jack cut him off, unable to keep the laughter entirely out of his voice. “It’s a valid question, Racer, you have to admit.”

“Don’t have to admit anything,” He muttered, staring off into the current as he felt himself flush. The truth was, he had a couple of things to pick up from the blacksmith. The forge in town was run by an older man by the name of Kloppman – admittedly, Race didn’t know his first name, wasn’t sure he’d ever even heard it. Rather than take on one apprentice at a time, Kloppman had a slew of them; mostly orphan boys he’d plucked from Snyder’s Refuge. They ranged in age from ten to their mid-twenties, all at varying levels of proficiency in the art of blacksmithing. They lived in the house located next to the forge, and they divvied up the work by rank: the youngest boys made chains, doorknobs, and other basic items; older apprentices were trained to make horseshoes, locks and keys, and they supervised the younger boys; apprentices who had graduated into journeymen took care of the weapons and tools that required intense concentration, knowledge, and strength.

Race had a bit of a penchant for daggers; his collection was large, diverse, and never quite complete, as far as he was concerned. And there was one journeyman at Kloppman’s who made, in the prince’s humble opinion, the strongest, sharpest blades for hundreds of miles. It just so happened that he was scheduled to pick up an order that afternoon, and he intended to keep his appointment.

The castle grounds came into view and before long, they were stepping into the unforgiving sun, making their way across the grounds to the stables, where they stopped and dismounted. Several stable boys darted out to meet them, taking Sully and Apple back to the stables. It was a bit of a walk to town, without the horses, but Race had some nervous energy he needed to burn off. Jack stayed by his side, his duty unspoken; if Racer went, Jack went.

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” Davey asked, glancing between the two of them as he idly brushed his hand over Pomme’s shoulder. “For the banquet?”

Race’s breath came out in a rush. _Oof._ Luckily, Jack answered for him.

“That’s right, and it’s a formal affair, so,” He paused, one corner of his mouth quirking up as he grinned at Davey. “Dress nice.”

Davey snorted a response, turning quickly – Race knew he was hiding his blush – and dismissing them with a wave of his hand. Race turned toward the gate, pretending not to notice when Jack watched Davey for just a second too long.

Racer loved to go to town; both Pulitzer children did, in fact. Hardly a day went by when Katherine wasn’t running some charitable function in the town, be it a soup kitchen, or teaching the orphan girls at the church how to mend clothing. The king’s ridiculously high tax rates on the townspeople meant that most families had to send all their children to work, many as young as ten years old. Race had always admired this quality in his sister, and he often pitched in enthusiastically, his heart warmed to see the genuine affection on the faces of their people. No matter how disliked the king – and that, he was – Race and Katherine had solidified their positions as the golden boy and girl of Manhattan a hundred times over, as far as the townspeople were concerned.

But occasionally, Race just wanted to be able to walk the streets, poke his nose into the shops and admire the heavy cloaks, buy a stone fruit from a cart and tip the vendor twice the cost. It was hard to do, without drawing attention, but the people were largely used to his presence and for the most part, they left him alone. That is not to say he went unnoticed; no, Race never could quite escape the watchful eyes of the kingdom. But there was nothing unusual about visiting the forge – every prince needed weapons, and Race took full advantage of that fact. His heart skipped when the two-story house attached to the forge came into view and he carefully controlled his expression, knowing Jack was watching him out the corner of his eye.

The heat rolling off the forge felt rude and unnecessary, in addition to the already humid summer day, and the loud _clank_ of metal on metal was jarring, to say the least. As he approached, the nearest journeyman halted his work, stepping back from his project and laying down his tools. He gave a half bow, greeting Race and Jack in a low voice.

“Your Highness,”

“Hey, Mush,” Race greeted him, earning a smile; Mush had one of those easy smiles, given out at the drop of a hat. Race appreciated that about him. “I’m here to pick up a few things.” Mush nodded.

“I know, he’s waitin’ on ya.” He jerked his head toward the forge. “Go ‘head back.”

“Thanks,” Race mumbled, glancing in Jack’s direction. “I’ll just be a minute.”

“Take your time,” Jack leaned against a pillar, arms crossed as he watched Race go, striking up a conversation with Mush.

Race made his way through the forge, nodding greetings at the other journeymen, Tommy and Elmer, as they worked. One would expect a house of blacksmiths to be full of gruff, grumpy characters, but not at Kloppman’s. Most of them were friendly and eager to chat, if they weren’t too busy. Perhaps it was the fact that they were all close in age to the prince, but Racer knew many of them by name and he quite liked them all. He allowed himself a moment to appreciate the view as he walked; they all wore sleeveless tunics when they worked, and their strong, toned arms were always on display. They protected their clothing and hands with leather aprons and sheepskin gloves. And though this meant they ended up with burns and scars covering their arms, it was apparently much safer than wearing sleeves – Race hadn’t asked any further questions about that one, curiosity be damned.

He knocked on the door that connected the forge to the house, pushing it open when he heard acknowledgment from the other side. He stepped into an office, of sorts; it was where Kloppman kept completed pieces that needed to be picked up by customers, to avoid cluttering the workspace in the forge. It was also where money was exchanged, although Race had to assume it wasn’t kept there, afterward. The walls were lined with shelves, filled nearly to capacity with neatly organized stacks of metalworks, each shelf carefully categorized. The weapons shelf was behind a large wooden desk that sat along the back wall, directly across from the door. Light streamed in from a high window near the ceiling, lending a soft feel to the room so filled with hard, jagged things.

“Your Highness,” The voice came from behind the desk and as always, there seemed to be a slight mocking edge to it. Race smirked even as he felt his heartrate pick up. Spot Conlon, who was Jack’s age – twenty-four or twenty-five, Race wasn’t entirely sure – was the highest-ranking journeyman at Kloppman’s, and he ran the forge, for all intents and purposes. Kloppman was getting older and he preferred to spend his time with the youngest boys, sharing the fundamentals that could only be learned from a master. Spot stood at the desk, leaning slightly over it, supporting his weight with one arm – the sculpted shape of which was thrown into sharp relief, thanks to the high, natural light and his sleeveless tunic. (Race was beginning to think he may have a bit of a thing for defined arms; Albert briefly came to mind before he pushed the thought out.) Spot looked up from the paper he’d been examining and fixed his gaze on Racer. Per usual, he was dressed in black and smudged with soot, although he somehow managed to look as though he’d placed the marks there on purpose, so much did they add to his rugged appearance. He cast a sharp contrast to Racer: all dark hair, eyes and clothes across from lean, fair features in light, breezy linen. Spot wasn’t a very tall man – although, Race didn’t think he knew any exceptionally tall men, except perhaps Specs, the head baker at the castle – but what he lacked in height he more than made up for in muscle tone, a result of years of hard, manual labor.

“Journeyman,” Race countered, staring the other man straight in the eye, only cracking when he noticed the slight twinkle in them. He closed the door behind him. “I believe you have something for me?” He intentionally left the question open-ended, as he often did when he talked to Spot. Race couldn’t help it – he was a shameless flirt, and he was feeling a little… wild today. 

“As usual,” Spot replied, turning to the shelf behind the desk and selecting a dagger from the second-highest shelf. Race bit his lip briefly as he admired the shape of Spot’s shoulders and upper back. _God, I’m in trouble._ He composed himself before Spot turned around and walked around the desk, carefully presenting the dagger to him. He bowed his head in a mocking fashion, eyes on the floor. “Your Grace,”

Race snorted, accepting the dagger and lifting it up to examine it. “ _Your Grace_ is my father, Conlon.”

“Not for long.”

“Hmph,” Race didn’t want to talk about that, just now. For now, he wanted to focus on the simple fact that he was alone in a room with Spot, turning over his new, shining dagger in his hands, awestruck by the craftsmanship. The handle fit perfectly in his hand, almost as if it were molded in his grip; the blade was polished, double-edged, and fairly short, only about eight inches long; Race could tell by sight alone that it was razor sharp. Mesmerized, he held it up so that the blade caught the light. “It’s beautiful, Spot,” He breathed, shaking his head. He looked up at Spot in time to see him shift his gaze away, a hand coming up to rub the back of his neck as he turned back to the shelf.

“As for this one,” He reached up, the small item disappearing in his hand until he walked back over to Race and opened his palm. “Dunno what you could use this for, but it’s exactly what you asked.” The blade was tiny and spear-shaped, the handle no more than a curve of metal, glinting in the light. Race set the dagger gently on the desk and plucked the blade from Spot’s hand, ignoring the butterflies in his stomach when his fingertips brushed against his skin. He spun it deftly through his fingers, grinning.

“It’s perfect,” He gushed, turning the small blade over in his hand until he found the singular dot along the handle that denoted Spot’s signature. Race dragged his gaze slowly up Spot’s form until he met his eyes. “Thank you.”

Spot waved off his thanks, leaning back against the desk and folding his arms across his chest. He nodded toward the small blade. “What’s that for, anyway?”

Race didn’t answer; merely winked at him as he bent and slipped the blade into his boot. Spot huffed a laugh, rolling his eyes. After a moment of quiet, Spot spoke again.

“I hear congratulations are in order.”

Race couldn’t stop the grimace that took over his features as he picked up the larger dagger again, twirling it idly. “Not yet,” He muttered. This was the very _last_ thing he wanted to think about, just now. He chanced a glance back up at Spot, who looked like he wanted to say more, but he didn’t. Race was glad for that; not sure he would even have told him, if he’d asked. He cleared his throat.

“Thank you again, Spot, for these,” He lifted the dagger in a grateful gesture. “They’re perfect, as always. The effort you put into them is… astounding.”

Spot shrugged a shoulder modestly, and Race could have sworn he was slightly flushed. It was hard to tell for sure, though, thanks to the smears of coal across his olive skin. “They’re fine. Tommy’s blades are just as good, and Elmer’s handles are more comfortable.”

“I doubt that,” Race shot back immediately; Spot’s head whipped to him, surprised by the intensity in his tone. Race held his gaze and they stayed like that another moment, the sounds of the forge audible now, in the silence. Race was about to speak when a soft knock on the door drew their attention.

“C-come in,” Spot cleared his throat as he stood up straight, assuming a more professional position. Race let his eyes linger on him for a moment before a familiar voice distracted him.

“Racer,” It was Jack, poking his head in the door almost sheepishly. “We need to head back to the castle.” He paused when Race raised an eyebrow questioningly. He looked like he didn’t want to continue but after a moment, he did. “The princess will be arriving soon.” With a nod of his head he retreated, closing the door quietly behind him.

Race sighed, reaching to his belt where he unhooked a small velvet pouch filled with coins. He held it out to Spot, who raised his hands in refusal; Race rolled his eyes and grabbed Spot’s wrist, pulling his hand toward him. He forced it open and shoved the pouch into it, using his other hand to close Spot’s fingers over it. His hands lingered perhaps a moment too long, but adrenaline was pumping through his body now, reminding him that he was on the edge of a major change, one that would change the course of his life forever. If Spot told the other blacksmiths that the prince had gotten oddly handsy, well, so be it. To his credit, Spot didn’t react, save from a hard swallow after he met Race’s eyes, nodding an agreement.

“Thanks,” He said quietly, idly rubbing the smooth fabric of the pouch in his hand.

“Get the boys something nice from me,” Race said. Spot smiled softly, a rare thing for the stoic blacksmith, and the sight warmed Race’s chest. He backed toward the door, raking his eyes over Spot’s form one last time, not caring anymore if Spot caught him. After all, the next time he saw him, he’d be a married man.

“Bye, Spot,” Racer’s voice was quiet as he opened the door.

“’Til next time, Your Highness,” This time, Race noted sincerity and a hint of something else in his voice.

As he trudged back to the castle, Race tried not to wonder how long it would be until that next time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I should wait longer than a day to update, but I can't help myself. This chapter is also short in comparison to most of the others, so I wanted to go ahead and get it out there. Plus I just love Katherine, so. Pls enjoy
> 
> Edited to add: There are apparently 9,999 words in the first two chapters and I just felt like I needed to document that fact 😂 ok, carry on

The rest of the day passed in a whirlwind.

Race officially met his future bride, and she was fine. Just… fine. But she quickly retired to her chamber, claiming she was too exhausted from the trip to take dinner with them. This was fine with Racer; after that, he spent the night with Jack and Davey, drinking more than his fair share of the wine he’d snagged from the cellar. They were only able to keep the conversation light for so long, before Race’s drunken musings led him to ask Jack about the princess.

“What’s she like?” Jack’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Why are you asking me?”

“You came from Richmond, didn’t you?” Race screwed up his face, trying to remember. He was fairly sure that’s where his father had told him Jack came from, as a boy. “She would have been a princess then, I’d think.”

Jack took a long swig from his goblet, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and set it down carefully before he answered. “Sure, but she would have been just a little girl, and I hardly remember anything from Richmond.” His voice came out a touch higher than usual, but Race hardly noticed; his vision was already beginning to blur around the edges. “My life really began when I came here, if I’m honest.” Race wasn’t too drunk to miss the way Jack’s eyes flitted briefly to Davey before he picked up his goblet again and pointed it toward Racer in a tipsy toast. “To the future king of Manhattan!”

“To the King!” Davey joined in, grinning before they both drained their goblets, slamming them down triumphantly on the wooden table. They were alone in the Great Hall; his father never took his meals with them unless they were holding a feast. Racer rolled his eyes toward the ceiling but he drank as well, slamming his empty goblet down with more force than was strictly necessary. He eyed the bottle, which was near empty, and picked it up, forgoing the goblet for the remainder of the evening.

Later on, Jack helped Racer get back to his chamber; Race was slumped against him, but Jack supported his weight easily. He pushed open the door and deposited him gently on the bed, where Racer fell onto his back, clumsily kicking off his boots. A sudden _clang_ of metal on stone startled him into a sitting position and he searched the floor frantically before he located his newest tiny blade, which he snatched up and put safely on his bedside table. His eyes lingered on it and he could feel Jack’s gaze on him. Perhaps it was the wine; perhaps he was just tired of hiding. He sighed.

“Jack, I don’t want to be king.”

Jack was quiet. “I know, Racer,” He said finally, sitting down on the bed next to him so that their shoulders touched. He waited another moment, looking like he was debating something before he spoke again. “But you know the rule.”

“I know, I know,” Race groaned, his head falling forward into his hands. “’The eldest male heir must be married by the age of twenty-two in order to claim the throne.’” He spat the words that had been drilled into his head since childhood, and he could almost taste the bitterness on his tongue. “But where does that rule come from, anyway? I’ve never seen it written in a book or anything. And why does it have to be me? Why not just the eldest child? Then Katherine could get what she’s always wanted, and the people would get their beloved princess as queen…” He trailed off, knowing it was useless. He’d wondered and asked these questions countless times over the years, more frequently as of late. Jack was quiet, letting him talk through it. A new question surged into his mind, and it came out before he’d even had a chance to think it through. “But why does he _want_ me to be king?”

Jack frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”

Race huffed, lifting his head to turn and look at Jack. “My father clearly loves being king more than anything – literally, anything. Why doesn’t he just let the deadline pass and keep the throne for himself?”

Jack’s mouth opened and closed a few times, his eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t have an answer for that, Racer. I don’t know why, and I wish I did. I wish I could take some of this away, for you.” His voice softened as he spoke, and Race had the feeling he wasn’t just talking about the throne, anymore. He picked up the small blade, absently running his fingertips over the dot in the handle. The motion was calming, and the aggravation he’d been feeling turned to weariness; his eyelids were suddenly rather heavy. Heaving a sigh, he leaned against Jack, resting his head on his shoulder.

“I wish the same for you, you know,” He felt Jack’s muscles tense slightly before he relaxed.

“I know,” Jack’s voice was soft and the tiniest bit sad. “Me too, Racer.”

Racer moved through the next day in a daze, letting himself be washed and dressed and poked and prodded until he was sitting at the high table in the Great Hall, Katherine and his father on his left, his betrothed on his right. Lily was nice enough, from what he could tell from the limited amount of time they’d spent together, but she seemed rather… dull, for lack of a more polite term. Race didn’t like to make snap judgments about people, but holding a conversation with her was a struggle; he had the sense she had been raised to provide only the most necessary information, and to keep her mouth shut otherwise. Her sweet smiles and polite nods cast a sharp contrast to the cutting wit and maternal nature of Manhattan’s princess. It shocked him, a bit. He supposed he had always assumed all princesses were like his sister, and he was beginning to understand that she was one of a kind.

The banquet was a smashing success. The guests toasted their marriage with wishes of blissful happiness and plenty of sons – Race only remembered to attempt a smile at that when Katherine stomped hard on his toe – and Race drained his goblet after every speech. _At this rate, maybe my liver will give up before the ceremony._ Startled by the half-hopefulness of the thought, Race tried to avoid the wine until at least after the meal. He picked at his plate, unable to pretend his stomach was twisting with anything but nerves, and instead tried to focus his attention on the entertainment. The court jesters, identical twins Mike and Ike, amazed the crowd with their acrobatic antics and comedic sketches and for the first time all evening, Race cracked a real smile. The twins were around his age, and he knew beneath their goofy exteriors they were kind and clever; he made a mental note to tip them handsomely for their performances, as he knew his father was rather stingy when it came to wages.

He felt a familiar itch in his fingertips and he started looking up and down the table for another bottle. In doing so, his eyes caught on Jack and Davey, who were off at the end of one of the long tables, heads bowed together in deep conversation. Racer smiled softly; Davey _did_ look nice. No one else would have noticed anything about the scene, but Race was transfixed as conflicting emotions warred within him. He was simultaneously happy for his friends and incredibly jealous. He had lived his entire life in the lap of luxury, waited on hand and foot, wanting for nothing. And yet, he couldn’t help but feel that he’d also lived his life in a cage, eyes always on his every move, questioning his motives, whether he had them or not. What he wouldn’t give to have the freedom of Davey or Jack – to be able to step out of the spotlight for once, have a drink with someone he was _actually_ interested in. He scanned the room quickly, although he knew none of the blacksmiths were there that evening. Why would they be? They were mere commoners, as far as his father was concerned, not the talented and dedicated artists Race considered them to be. If it were up to him… well, a lot of things would be different.

After a quick glance at his father, who was in quiet, private conversation with the Delancey brothers – knights Oscar and Morris, his father’s personal security detail – Race politely excused himself from Lily and backed away from the table, slipping through the servant door and hurrying down the hall to the kitchens. He returned the surprised greetings of the staff, including puzzled looks from Specs and Romeo, who were putting finishing touches on a stunning fruit tart clearly meant for the happy couple. Les, Davey’s younger brother, sat on the wooden slab next to them, sneaking bits of fruit whenever the other two looked away. Race put a finger to his lips in an exaggerated gesture, earning a giggle from the young boy as he ducked through the door that led to the wine cellar. He pilfered a random bottle and hurried out, sticking close to the stone walls as he stole through the halls, making his way to the library. The sinking, aching feeling in his chest would not be solved by liquor, he knew, but there was only one face he wanted to see, just now.

The library was dark, save for the dim glow of a dying fire across from the wall of portraits. He crossed the room and dropped into a large armchair near the wall, then pried the cork from the bottle with his teeth and spat it toward the fireplace. He drank, sinking further into the chair as he stared at his various dead relatives. Is this what his life was, now? Drinking to forget, to avoid reality? Would his great-grandson one day lounge in this very chair, drinking wine straight from the bottle as he stared up at Racer’s portrait? _What would I tell him?_

“You’re drunk,” He said out loud. He let out a deranged giggle that didn’t stop, overwhelmed by the absurdity of it all. He had to place the bottle on the floor to keep from spilling it on himself as he dissolved into hysterical laughter.

“Yes, you are,” The sudden voice startled him and he was incredibly grateful he’d already set the bottle down.

“Who’s ‘at?” He slurred, squinting through the dusty darkness toward the door. A familiar silhouette soon came into view and his face relaxed into a warm smile. “Katherine! Dear sister, join me!” He grabbed the neck of the half-empty bottle and held it out, swirling it enticingly.

“No, thank you,” Katherine replied politely, though she took the bottle and put it on a table, out of arm’s reach of her brother. He sighed dramatically, turning in the chair so that he was sideways, his neck curved uncomfortably over one arm, long legs dangling from the other. Katherine looked lovely, dressed elegantly for the banquet; tiny, hidden braids peeking out from the layers of her auburn hair. Racer had no doubt Sarah had put them there. “I thought I might find you here. They’re about to serve dessert.”

“Don’t care,” Race mumbled, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to stop the tilting of the room. He heard the soft sound of Katherine sinking into the chair beside him, but she didn’t say anything else. Instead, she wound her fingers into his hair, playing softly with his curls and he let out a heavy sigh, all but melting into the chair at the comforting touch. Their mother used to do this, too, and it was about the only thing that could get a young Racer to sit still for longer than a few minutes at a time. He felt the tension bleed out of his neck and shoulders and he hummed softly, as close to content as he could remember being in recent days. He had just started to feel his consciousness slip away when Katherine spoke, quietly.

“I miss her.”

Race opened his eyes, and he didn’t need to see his sister to know where she was looking. He turned his head toward the wall again and found the portrait he’d gone there to see: Queen Katherine Pulitzer, sitting rod-straight in a high-backed chair, seven-year-old Katherine standing at her side, five-year old Racer perched on her lap. It was the only portrait they had of their mother; she had died only six months after its completion. Race swallowed hard, wishing he’d thought to bring some water, too. He stared at the portrait he had memorized, raking his eyes over her flowing red hair, her subdued smile, her guiding hands on Katherine’s shoulder and around Racer’s waist as she held him in place.

“You look just like her, you know,” He mused as he leaned into Katherine’s touch. She tugged on a curl before she resumed the gentle movement, every now and then lightly scratching his scalp. God, he could fall asleep, right there. “She’d be so proud of you.” He added softly, no longer slurring his words. He wondered idly if drunken truth just sounded like the truth, or if he was just beyond the alcohol’s effect, now. There was something sobering about staring into your dead mother’s face.

“I only hope to be half the woman she was,” Katherine’s voice was reverent, a little far away. Race reached up and grabbed her hand, bringing it down to press a quick kiss to her palm before he let it go.

“You’re that and more, Kath.” She ruffled his curls in an affectionate gesture, and Race thought he may have heard a quiet sniff. “I dunno how you do it.”

“Do what?”

“Everything Mother did,” Race’s eyes flicked to Katherine, who looked curious. “All of her endeavors, you’ve kept them going all this time. Most princesses are concerned with manners and parties and running the household but you,” He paused, smiling as he swelled with pride. “You care about your people above all else. How do you do it?”

Katherine was a quiet a moment, and when she spoke, she had the air of one reciting a well-rehearsed mantra. “Just look around at the world we’re inheriting, and think of the one we’ll create.”

Race blinked. “Come again?”

Katherine chuckled. “It’s from one of her letters.”

“Her what?”

“Well, I suppose they aren’t strictly _letters_ ,” Katherine clarified, gazing at the portrait again. “They’re more like records of all of her projects and her plans for expanding them. I found them in the bottom of her dresser when I was twelve.” She paused, looking pensively at Race’s awestruck expression. “I think it means that we can always improve the world around us, we can always try to make things better for the people we care about. Things don’t have to stay the same.”

“God, see, this is why you should just be queen,” Race threw his hands in the air, exasperated.

“You flatter me, Racer, but you know the rule,”

“The rule is horse shit,” He spat. “You would make a better ruler than I could ever dream of being, if I even dreamed of that sort of thing. And the people would be dancing in the streets to see you take Father’s place, I’d stake my life upon it.”

“Ha,” She tried to sound dismissive.

“I mean it,” And he did. But it didn’t make much difference what he thought, or even what the people wanted. He fell quiet again, eyes automatically drawn back to his mother.

“She would be proud of you too, Tony.” Katherine’s soft tone was rife with conviction. She was the only one who called him that, ever. To the rest of the world he was either Prince Anthony, or Racer – nothing in between. As much as the sentiment warmed his heart, Race heard himself snort.

“I doubt that.”

“Tony,” Katherine chided.

He shrugged, making a soft noise of protest when Katherine stopped playing with his hair. She sighed wearily and resumed the motion. “What kind of prince am I? Can’t choose a wife, so my father has to choose one for me, and now that he has, it’s the last thing I want to do. I don’t want to lead, I don’t want to rule, I just want-“ He cut off. He was always so careful about how and when he spoke about his desires, and although the room was dark and deserted, he was never entirely sure they were truly alone. He sighed. “Well, you know.”

“I know,” Katherine murmured comfortingly. Hell, she even sounded like their mother, now. Race was quiet for a few moments.

“M’just scared,” He mumbled, eyes downcast. “I don’t want things to change.”

“Things are always changing, Tony,” Katherine replied sagely. Race huffed, tilting his head back slightly to look at her, upside down.

“And what about when I can’t… you know… consummate the marriage?”

For a moment, it seemed Katherine was at a loss for words – a rare thing, indeed. “I-I don’t know, if I’m being honest,” She looked slightly embarrassed as she looked away from their mother’s portrait. “As you know, I haven’t much experience in… that department, either.”

Race squinted at her. He knew Katherine had never been with a man, yes, that much was true. But that didn’t stop him from suspecting she may have had her own experiences with one of _her_ closest friends – not unlike his friendship with Albert. He was far from the only one in the castle to have noticed Katherine had a favorite. Davey’s sister, Sarah, was in charge of the laundry for the whole castle. Their mother, Esther, had taken over the role of housekeeper when the queen was still alive, as she preferred to focus on charitable outreach – something her daughter dutifully carried on in her absence. But rather often, Esther had to oversee the laundry because Sarah would be summoned by the princess at the drop of a hat, even for something so simple as washing her hair. They were near inseparable, and Race had a hunch. But as it was only a hunch, he kept quiet.

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” She finished, sounding like she halfway believed it. Race laughed bitterly.

“I don’t think you understand how this works.”

Katherine groaned and rolled her eyes, smacking him lightly on the head. “You’re not the only person who has ever had to marry someone they didn’t like.” She paused, thinking. “On your wedding night, just think of… I don’t know, Albert!”

“Ha!” The force of his laugh surprised him and he was grateful for the low light as he felt his cheeks burn. His sister was in rare form, tonight. “I appreciate the sentiment, Kath, but I don’t think that will work… anymore.” He chanced another upside down glance, which he immediately regretted when she uttered her next words.

“Okay well, how about the blacksmith?”

Race gasped and sat up, his jaw hanging open. Katherine laughed and raised her hands in a questioning gesture. His hand darted to the bottle on the table, grasping it before Katherine could react and tipping it up, draining it. He let the empty bottle slip onto the plush rug as he threw himself dramatically across the chair again, one hand draped over his forehead.

“Dear me, I feel faint; I fear I am in no shape to enjoy dessert this evening,” He heaved a great sigh, peeking out one eye at Katherine; unable to stop a small grin at her amused expression. “Prithee, sister, escort me to my chamber so that I might recover? I _must_ be well by my wedding day, after all!”

“Ugh,” Katherine grunted, but her smile gave her away as she stood, extending a hand to help him up. “I’ll tell Father you ate a bad apple or something.”

“Father already knows I’m a bad apple,” Race quipped as he threw an arm over Katherine’s shoulders, leaning down slightly.

“You deliberately misheard me,”

“Pish, posh.”

Race fell into his bed face first when he arrived, asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. He hadn’t even taken the time to undress. He slept like the dead for a while, until the deepest, quietest hours of the night. It had to be near three in the morning when he sat bolt upright in bed, suddenly completely sober as his eyes fixed on the window. He had woken up just enough to roll from his stomach to his back, and as he was drifting back to sleep, he’d heard it.

If it had been a windy night, he may have missed the sound; but it was still, sticky, as it had been in the day, and the faint _rustle_ that stirred him was decidedly not the wind. Silently, Race slipped out of his bed and across the room. He pressed himself tightly against the stone wall, a foot from the window, and waited, hardly daring to breathe. For a moment, nothing happened. He had just begun to think he may have dreamed the sound when the faint moonlight coming through the window went out like a candle. Adrenaline spiked through his veins, rooting him to the spot while his muscles tensed, ready to spring. A man was crouched in his window, no more than a shadow as Race couldn’t make out any discernible features; from what he could tell, the man was dressed head to toe in black, a mask obscuring his identity. He moved silently, stepping into Race’s room one foot at a time, moving cautiously in the direction of the bed. Race took a quiet, shaking breath in, and leapt.

He slammed into the man, gasping as he hit the solid mass; the man took a step but didn’t fall, and Racer quickly wrapped his arms around his shoulders and kicked out the back of his knee. The man dropped and Racer took his chance, twisting them both in the direction of the potentially injured knee and they rolled across the floor, struggling for dominance in the darkness. Just when Race thought he had him, the mystery man twisted his lower body, shoving a knee hard into Race’s stomach; he curled inward and the man took advantage of his position, flipping them over and pinning Race face first into the cold stone. Before he could catch his breath, Race’s hands were secured at his lower back, held in place by startlingly strong fingers. He didn’t have to wonder where the other hand was, as he felt the unmistakable sharp point of a dagger between his shoulder blades. His breath came in gasps as the stranger leaned over him to speak gruffly into his ear.

  
“Do. Not. Move.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who read/commented/left kudos! It warms my heart and I'm so happy other people are enjoying this, too. Super sorry about the cliffhanger, won't happen again. Probably. No promises.

“Do. Not. Move.”

Racer had to fight the urge to scoff at that; he couldn’t move if he tried. Unable to stop a quiet, dangerous growl from escaping, he tried to focus on breathing. _In, out._ His cheekbone was sore where it had struck the stone floor and he inhaled dust with every breath, his throat dry with the effort. His heart was pounding as adrenaline flooded his system, his every nerve screaming at him to run, shout, _do_ something. Mind racing, his eyes darted around the room as well as he could without lifting his head, planning a course to all the hidden weapons if he managed to get free. He cursed himself for not having grabbed the blade from his table before he got up. The hand gripping his wrists showed no sign of letting up and he grunted in frustration.

“What do you want?” He spat through gritted teeth.

There was no answer from above him and the figure suddenly stood, not relinquishing his hold on Racer’s hands as he yanked him upright. He clambered awkwardly to his feet, shoulders screaming in protest at having been wrenched up and back so quickly. He made another low sound in his chest.

“What do you _want_?” He asked again, more forcefully. He tried to move his wrists and found he absolutely could not. _Fucking hell, he’s strong._

“I want you to stop talkin’.” Came the gruff voice behind him, fingers tightening around his wrists. Racer swallowed his noise of discomfort; he wouldn’t give this man the satisfaction. His eyes darted to his bedside table, where the small blade Spot had fashioned for him still sat, unnoticed by the intruder. If he could just get-

“Agh,” Racer let out a pained sound as he was jerked backward by his wrists, nearly tripping over the man’s feet as he stumbled. The dagger was back between his shoulders, stinging as it bit through the fabric of his shirt. He couldn’t stop the shiver that ran through him when the man leaned in to speak quietly, his breath warm against his ear.

“Hold still.”

“Who are you?” He demanded, biting his lip when he felt the prick of the dagger in his skin.

“I said stop talkin’,” The man hissed. Race smirked as an idea came to him. If he made enough noise, the guards at the top of the stairwell would have his door off the hinges in moments. He was fairly sure this was no assassination attempt; if it were, he would have been dead already. No, this man wanted something from him, but he was clearly alone, surely no match for Racer _and_ several armed guards. He’d just begun to suck in a breath to shout when the man spoke again, and something about the urgency in his voice made Race freeze. “You need to come with me, Your Highness.”

“Why?” Something, somewhere in his brain clicked. He knew that voice, but he couldn’t place it. The darkness, his aching wrists, the adrenaline – they were fogging his ability to think clearly.

“Because I’m the one with a dagger in your back, that’s why,”

“You won’t kill me.” Race said evenly, thanking the gods his voice didn’t betray his nerves.

“You sure about that?”

“You’d have done it by now,” Race’s voice went up a bit at the end and he bit his lip against the pain in his wrists, which had increased slightly. He sighed, eyes rolling upward before he squeezed them shut. “Look, I’ll come with you, just- please, let me go.” He hadn’t really expected it to work, and he wasn’t surprised when the man’s grip did not let up. He groaned, his head falling forward. “I mean it, I’ll come with you. I promise.”

The man sighed; the sound surprised him. He sounded almost weary and Racer felt his grip loosen, the tiniest bit. “Look, someone you love is in trouble. They need you, and they need you now.”

Race’s blood turned to ice in his veins and when he spoke, his voice was tight with menace. “If you have my sister, I swear on my mother I will gut you like a fish-“

“It’s not the princess,” The voice sounded almost exasperated now; Race’s heart thudded in his chest as he processed the information.

“Who is it?” He gave another test of his wrists, letting out a frustrated sound when the man’s grip didn’t budge. “Tell me, now, or I’m going to start yelling-“

“God, don’t you ever shut up?” The man huffed. “Fine, it’s your friend, the knight. Jack Kelly.”

Racer’s stomach dropped out. If someone had managed to kidnap Jack, he must be hurt; he was a difficult man to catch unawares. “Where is he? Who has him? Is he hurt?”

“Shh!” He hissed. “You gotta come with me to help him.” There it was again, that elusive familiarity. Race nodded vigorously.

“Yes, fine, I’ll come, just let me go, please,” Mercifully, the man dropped his wrists and took a step back.

“Hurry.” He instructed tersely, moving into the shadows to the side of the window.

With a quiet sound, Race brought his hands in front of him, rolling his wrists as the feeling came back into his fingers. He turned quickly, not wanting to take his eyes off the man as he backed toward his bed. He snatched the blade from the table and tucked it into his boot, then crossed to his dresser where he quickly changed his shirt and pants, opting for darker hues so they wouldn’t be seen. Terrified as he was for Jack, he couldn’t help the flutter of excitement he felt in his chest as he opened the top drawer, revealing his dagger collection. He tucked a couple into his belt and dropped another smaller one into his other boot. He glanced up at the man, who was impatiently shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“You ready?”

“Almost,” Race murmured, an idea striking him all at once. He bent double and retrieved the spear-shaped blade from his boot, standing up and pulling back his sleeve.

“What are you- fuckin’ hell,“ The man cut off as Racer dragged the blade over the top of his forearm in a shallow cut, letting out a soft hiss. He wiped the blade on his pants and slipped it back into his boot. Blood welled to the surface immediately and Racer hurried to his bed, turning his arm so the blood dripped onto the floor. He slowly made his way to the window, smearing the spots here and there with his toe. He glanced up at the man, a devilish grin overtaking his features when he noticed the shock in the man’s eyes; the only body part he could see.

“If I just disappear, they’ll go after Davey,” He paused, realizing the man didn’t know who he was talking about. He huffed and continued. “My friend, the stablemaster’s son. They’ll think he’s hidden me or something, to get out of-“ He stopped and swallowed. “It doesn’t matter. Now they’ll know I didn’t leave of my own accord.”

“Noted,” The other man was plainly impatient now as he motioned to the window. “Let’s go.”

Just to spite him, Racer took another look through his top drawer and switched out a dagger for another one, about the length of his hand. It was the first one Spot had ever made for him, and it was his sentimental favorite. It was also a great size for concealing; he tucked it into his belt and turned to face the man again. His heartrate was close to normal now as the wheels turned in his head and he frowned, gesturing toward the window.

“Did you… did you climb up to my window without using a rope?”

He nodded curtly. “And we’re leaving the same way. Got a problem with that?”

“Of course not,” Racer snorted, crossing to the window and climbing into it. Gripping the underside of the top curve of the window, he leaned slightly out, grinning smugly when he noticed the man tense. “Just thought I was the only one dumb enough to try that.” He could have sworn he heard a soft, amused huff escape the man at that. Racer took one last look around his room, then over his shoulder at the grounds below before he began to ease himself down, gripping the rough stone exterior.

They descended the tower silently, Racer with the practice of one who had escaped his room many a time. They dropped lightly onto the grass at the bottom and ran, staying low to the ground, until they disappeared into the woods at the edge of the grounds. He followed the man through the trees until they came upon the wall that ran along the west end of town. They scaled it easily, dropping down on the other side without being noticed. Racer took a quick glance around as they ducked behind the nearest building. The town was deserted; he felt a dark thrill as he realized no one aside from the masked man knew where he was at this very moment. The adrenaline was still coursing through him and his chest was rising and falling quickly as he pressed against the building, turning to look at his companion.

“Now what?” He whispered. The man reached one hand across his own body, beginning to unknot a strip of fabric tied around his arm. He unraveled a long piece of black cloth and held it loosely in his hands. Race didn’t like where this was going.

“Sorry ‘bout this, Your Highness,” Race narrowed his eyes at his amused tone; he couldn’t figure this man out. “But you can’t see where we’re goin’.” He stepped up to him, lifting the cloth.

“Fine,” Racer sighed as he closed his eyes and allowed the man to wrap the scarf around his head like a blindfold. He swallowed hard, his heartrate beginning to speed up again as he was plunged into true darkness. He heard the man step closer to him and he jumped about a foot in the air when he felt a strong hand grip his waist. If he hadn’t been blindfolded, he probably wouldn’t have heard the weary sigh the other man let out.

“I told you, I’m not gonna hurt you,” The man breathed, moving his hand to the small of Race’s back to guide him through the streets. “Just be quiet.”

Racer bit back a sarcastic reply, reminding himself that Jack was in trouble. The thought sent another wave of panic through him and he gritted his teeth. When he got his hands on whoever had Jack… Racer tried to track his steps in relation to the shop they’d been near when he was blindfolded, but it was hopeless. He had no idea where they were going. They stopped sooner than he would have expected; they must still be in town. He heard the creak of a door and he stepped forward automatically, gasping when he was yanked abruptly backward by his shirt.

“Wait,” The man hissed, sounding vaguely panicked. “Step _down_.” Racer rolled his eyes – not that the man could see – and stepped down carefully, feeling uneven stone stairs beneath his feet. So they were entering through a cellar. He counted ten stairs, noting the way the air changed from thick and humid to musty and cool, a shiver working its way down his spine. Another creaking door, a small step up, the door slamming behind him. The man’s hands moved from his back to his wrist, fairly dragging him down what seemed to be a hallway until they finally stopped. The man dropped his wrist; Racer heard an odd series of knocks on a wooden door; another creak and someone inside the room grabbed the front of his shirt, jerking him roughly over the threshold. He stumbled, one hand reaching automatically up to grab the arm still gripping his shirt and he heard the door close softly behind him. The hand in his shirt pulled and pushed; he fell with a sound of surprise onto a scratchy, crinkly surface. He reached his hands out to either side, feeling the rough material of what seemed to be a cushion of sorts. He was just about to ask if he could remove his blindfold when it was torn off. He blinked a few times, his vision slightly blurry from the pressure of the scarf, but soon he registered his surroundings.

He was in a small, cold room, indeed upon a wooden bed topped with a hay-stuffed mattress. He looked quickly around, noting one tiny, high window near the ceiling; only a small, worn-down dresser holding a lit candle, a bucket on the floor and-

“Jack!” Shock froze him in place when he saw him, leaning casually against the closed door. “But you’re okay! But he said-“

“Shh, Racer,” Jack raised his hands in a calming gesture, coming to sit next to him on the bed. “Keep your voice down.”

“But you’re-“

“I’m fine,” Jack assured him, looking over his shoulder at the masked figure, who had taken Jack’s place near the door, arms crossed. He turned back to Racer, who was still white-faced and stunned. “Look, I’m sorry about this, but I had to get you out.”

“ _You_ did this?!” Race opened and closed his mouth, trying to make sense of this insane situation. “But why?”

“I had to- look, it’s compli-“ He cut off in a sigh, running a hand over his face. It was only then Racer noticed the bags under his eyes, the pallor of his skin; he looked exhausted. Jack looked again to the other man, who hadn’t moved. “Let’s just get everything out in the open, yeah?” They seemed to be communicating wordlessly, and after a moment, the figure deflated slightly, uncrossing his arms. He grabbed the bottom of his mask and pulled up, removing it in one swift motion.

If Racer had been shocked to see Jack, it was nothing to what he felt now. His jaw dropped.

“Spot?” His voice shook but he couldn’t bring himself to care. His mind was racing as he tried to make sense of the events of the last hour; tried to imagine Spot climbing in through his window, Spot pinning him to the floor with a blade in his back, but he couldn’t conjure the image. He seemed to have lost his ability to speak. Incredibly, Spot chuckled; Racer was immediately irritated. “Something funny?”

“Just never seen you so lost for words, Your Highness,” There it was, the familiarity. Race’s eyes flashed dangerously but Spot’s smile only grew. “I get it, now.”

“Get what?” Race shot back; he’d experienced so many conflicting emotions in such a short amount of time, he’d apparently decided to default to anger.

“Why they call you Racer,” Spot paused, waiting for a response. When he received none, other than narrowed blue eyes, he shrugged in a sort of _well, you know_ gesture. “’Cause you never stop runnin’ your mouth.”

Race pushed up off the bed, taking an aggressive step in Spot’s direction before Jack jumped up, stopping him with a hand on his chest. When Race didn’t move back, Jack gripped his shoulder and pushed until he sat, still glaring at Spot.

How dare he? Who the hell did Spot think he was? To come sneaking into his room in the middle of the night, make him think someone wanted him _dead_ just to bring him here, to Jack? And _why?_ His blood was boiling; somebody had better start talking, and soon. Spot held his gaze for a moment before he looked pointedly away, at Jack.

“Go on, then,” He said to the knight. “Tell him.”

Jack looked at Spot again before he sunk down next to Race.

“Listen,” His voice was quiet, and he spoke quickly. “All you need to know right now is, everyone is safe, no one is in danger, and… and we have a plan.”

“A plan for what? And who’s we?”

“A plan to make sure you don’t have to become king. Or get married, or any of it.”

Race blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Look, I don’t have time to explain it in any more detail, tonight. I have to get back to the castle soon and take over watch so I can discover you missing, in the morning.” Despite his lingering anger, Race snorted in amusement. Of course Jack wouldn’t be on duty when he was kidnapped right out of his chamber.

“Wait,” Race interrupted, grabbing Jack’s arm to prevent him from getting up. “No, I have a few questions.”

Jack looked anxiously to Spot, who shrugged, and turned back to Racer in a huff. “Fine, hurry.”

“So who will become king?”

“That’s… sort of up in the air, still.” Racer felt, if possible, more confused than before. But he recognized he was going to get short answers, and few of them, so he pressed on.

“Why did you kidnap _me_?” At that, Jack grinned, if a little sheepishly.

“No prince, no royal wedding.”

“No wedding, no King Anthony. Did you forget that part? Don’t you think I’m at least a _little_ better than my father?” Race almost couldn’t believe the words were coming out of his mouth, but there they were.

“Of course we do,” Jack glanced over his shoulder again at Spot; Racer fought hard to keep his eyes on Jack’s face. He still wasn’t sure what exactly he was feeling toward Spot, just now. “But Racer, you would have been miserable.” Race gulped. Mercifully, Jack went on. “You told me yourself that you don’t want to be king. Besides, when you marry, it should be because you want to get married. You should be able to choose who that is.”

Race’s eyes flicked to Spot, who looked quickly toward the candle, feigning indifference. Race ran his tongue over his teeth as he thought. “Why did you send him?” He jerked his head in Spot’s direction, satisfaction flaring in his chest when Spot’s head whipped to him, looking affronted for a brief moment before he quickly controlled his expression. “Not to be rude,” Race added quickly, though it was hard to miss the sarcastic note to his voice. “But you’re kind of… small.”

Spot arched an eyebrow, the beginnings of a smirk on his lips. “Didn’t seem to be a problem in your room.”

Race stood up, crossing the room before Jack could grab him. He marched up to Spot, smirking when Spot was forced to tip his chin upward to keep eye contact. He poked a finger in Spot’s chest, trying to ignore the hard muscle beneath his fingertip.

“I could take you if I was expec-“ Race cut off abruptly as Spot’s hand wrapped around his extended wrist – which, Race realized suddenly, was still rather sore – and jerked Racer’s arm across his body, spinning him around and pinning him to the door before he even grasped what had happened. His arm was twisted up behind him, Spot’s grip on his wrist decidedly gentler than it had been earlier. Race’s heart jumped into his throat when he felt the blacksmith lean in to speak in his ear; oh, this felt _very_ different from the last time Spot had him subdued.

“What were you saying, Your Highness?” Race needed to get out of this situation, and quick; Jack was still in the room.

“Okay, okay,” His voice came out higher than usual and he cleared his throat. “I see, I get it. You’re dangerous, I understand.” He swallowed hard – Spot still hadn’t released him. He sighed. “I’m sorry I called you small.” Spot chuckled but he let go, stepping back to lean against the dresser. Jack stood suddenly, inching toward the door. Race crossed his arms as he stood directly in his path, eyebrows raised at the knight.

“Racer, I really need to go, and you’re in good hands, here,” Jack assured him, ignoring Race’s indignant noise. “I promise I’ll come back tomorrow and explain everything, okay?”

“You’re leaving me here?”

“What part of kidnap do you not understand?” Spot asked. Racer ignored him. Jack sighed.

“Yes, but I _promise_ you this will all make sense soon. Do you trust me?”

Race groaned; that wasn’t fair. “Of course, but-“

“Then let me go. I will come back tomorrow.” There was nothing more Race could do, other than to step aside. So he did.

Race stared at the door as it closed, half terrified to turn around and face Spot without Jack as a buffer. Luckily, Spot spoke first.

“Look, I’m sorry about… the way it happened. It wasn’t s’posed to go like that.”

“Yeah?” Race spun, his earlier anger bubbling back up to the surface. “How was it _supposed_ to go, exactly?”

“You were supposed to be asleep,” Spot explained, not meeting his eyes. “But then you tackled me, and I had to improvise.”

“Why didn’t you just take off your mask?”

“Oh, and you woulda gone with me if I did, huh?” Spot sounded skeptical as he looked back at Racer, dark eyes glinting in the dim light. “You’d’ve been fine with the blacksmith sneakin’ through your window in the middle of the night?”

“I- well, yes,” He stuttered, feeling his face flush. “Yeah, ‘course I would have.” The genuine surprise on Spot’s face made the remnants of Race’s anger fade, replaced by a weariness he felt in his bones. He crossed to the bed and sat on the end of it, one hand gripping the wooden frame to keep from swaying. Spot cleared his throat softly.

“Go ahead, get some rest. Sun’ll be coming up, soon enough.” Race frowned.

“What about you? Don’t you need sleep?” Spot shrugged, slipping out of his shoes.

“I’ll be fine on the floor.”

“No,” The word came out more forcefully than Race had intended, but he meant it. “No way. I’m not taking your bed while you sleep on the floor.”

“Well I’m certainly not gonna have the crown prince sleeping on the floor, either,” Spot countered, turning away from him to open a drawer. He pulled out a clean sleeveless tunic and, without warning, removed his dirty shirt and tossed it in the corner of the room onto a wooden chair Race hadn’t noticed before. He didn’t notice much of anything at that moment other than the shape of Spot’s back, and then his front as he turned to face Racer, tugging the shirt down to cover his well-defined chest and stomach. Race only just managed to close his mouth before Spot looked at him again, and he swallowed hard, his throat suddenly very dry. “So, now what?”

Race debated only for a second. “Looks like we’re sharing, then.” His heart pounded as he said the words, but he didn’t take them back. If he was going to be thrust into this bizarre situation, he might as well make the best of it. He had a chance to spend even a couple of hours in the same bed as Spot Conlon, and he was damn sure going to take it. Spot nodded shortly; Race was a little surprised he didn’t require more convincing. He stood up and removed all his weapons, setting them carefully on top of the dresser, and placed his boots, blades and all, underneath. He turned back toward the bed and was startled to find Spot only about a foot away from him, still standing. Spot jerked his chin over his shoulder in the direction of the bed.

“Go ‘head and lay down, I’m just gonna get the light.” He gestured to the candle on the dresser behind Race.

“Oh, I can get it,” Race offered, starting to turn but Spot shook his head.

“No, you gotta be against the wall, so you lay down first.” Race frowned.

“Why?”

Spot fixed him with a look. “Really? So I can be between you and the door, if someone comes in.”

“Are you gonna protect me, Conlon?”

“You doubting my ability?”

Race opened his mouth, retort on his lips and then stopped, thinking better of it. “No, I suppose not. You’ve more than proven that, I think.” He paused, pulling his lip between his teeth. “Is someone likely to come in?”

“Oh, no,” Spot said, shaking his head. “They all know not to come in here.” Race nodded as he sat on the bed and scooted over to the wall, trying to calm the pounding of his heart. Spot opened a drawer and pulled out a worn quilt, tossing it to Racer before leaning over and blowing out the candle. The room went pitch black and it was several minutes before Race could see anything at all. He felt the mattress shift as Spot laid next to him. This bed was much smaller than the one in his room, and even though he was on his side with his back to the wall, Spot’s arm still brushed against his chest when he laid on his back. He hoped like hell Spot couldn’t hear his thudding heartbeat. Their quiet breathing was the only sound for several minutes, and Race thought Spot might have been asleep before-

“Racer?”

Race sucked in a breath; he wasn’t sure Spot had ever called him that before. “Yes?”

“I really am sorry,” The mattress crinkled as Spot turned onto his side to face him in the darkness; the backs of their hands brushed against each other between them. “About hurtin’ you. Your wrists, and everything. You caught me off guard when you lunged at me, and I thought I was in the wrong room until I had you pinned. Then… I dunno, I felt like I had to play the part to get you outta there.” A pause. “I hope you know I wouldn’t ever hurt you.”

Racer was stunned into silence, not for the first time that night. He could detect none of Spot’s usual sarcasm in his tone, and he even thought he might have heard a hint of regret. He smiled, though Spot couldn’t see it in the inky darkness. Race was actually rather glad for that; he was sure he was flushing spectacularly. “I know,” He answered quietly. He heard Spot’s relieved exhale and shifted, daring to inch closer to him. He was just opening his mouth when Spot spoke again.

“Although, I gotta say, that is _not_ how I expected you to use that blade.”

Now Race was sure he was blushing; Spot had clearly noticed which daggers he’d chosen to bring with him.

“I had to improvise,” Race repeated Spot’s words back to him, earning a soft huff of amusement in the darkness. “So what was the plan, if I was asleep? You were gonna, what, carry me down the side of the castle?”

“Basically.”

“And you could do that? Scale the tower with me slung over your shoulder?”

“I’ve got tools that weigh more than you,”

“You’d be surprised,” Spot snorted at that. “What if I woke up?”

“Honestly, I kinda figured you’d be passed out drunk and I wouldn’t have to worry about that.”

“Ouch,”

“Sorry,” Race felt the mattress shift; he thought maybe Spot had lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “It’s just, Jack told me you’ve been drinkin’ a lot lately and we could probably get you out without too much fuss.” He chuckled. “I shoulda known you wouldn’t make it easy on me.”

Race grinned, his mind racing even as sleep crept up on him. He’d gone to bed drunk, avoiding his responsibilities – and his future wife – and now here he was, hours later, inches from Spot Conlon, in his bed, in the pitch dark. No matter how this all turned out, it was worth this, right here.

“Thanks,” He heard himself say as his eyes drifted closed.

“For what?”

“For kidnapping me.” The soft chuckle that Spot let out warmed Race’s chest.

“My pleasure, Your Highness.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone curious, this is the prompt that somewhat inspired this story, via promptsforthestrugglingauthor on tumblr:
> 
> Writing Prompt #660  
> Being an assassin, I had made a number of questionable decisions in my life, but hadn’t particularly thought twice about them. Well, this time was different. The further I rode off, the more I knew I was going to be made to regret kidnapping the prince instead of killing him.
> 
> Obviously, I didn't stick very closely to the original prompt, but this screamed Sprace to me and it evolved in my head so, here we are.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiii once again thank you so much for reading, means the world to me that other people might enjoy this story. A couple things: I strongly considered breaking this into two, but I'm kinda just hoping that if you're here, you don't mind the long chapters. Also, there is a mention of a "soft knit hat" in this chapter; it's a beanie. I struggled to describe it but that's the beauty of fanfic, right? Author's notes! So, it's just a beanie. That's all, please enjoy!

“Psst, Racer,”

Race groaned, clinging to the remnants of blissful sleep. Someone moved his shoulder gently.

“Racer, wake up,”

Annoyed, he cracked open one eye, forgetting for a moment where he was. But then he caught a glimpse of dark eyes and darker eyelashes, looking into his own from only a few inches away, and he remembered. He glanced up to the small, rectangular window, which offered a weak stream of morning sunlight.

“Spot,” He mumbled, too tired to hide the pleased note in his voice. He had an insane urge to reach out, wrap his arm around the other man, and he only just managed to fight it.

“Listen,” Spot sounded much more coherent than he. “I have to go to work, but you gotta stay here. A few of the guys know you’re here, but the younger boys can’t know. It’s not safe.”

The seriousness of the situation began to set in and Racer nodded, starting to feel more awake. He noticed, though, that neither of them had gotten out of bed; they were still sharing a pillow, facing each other on their sides, the exact same way they had fallen asleep only a few hours before.

“Jack will be here later,” Spot continued, and the determination in his eyes caused a flutter in Race’s chest. Spot was putting his neck on the line for _him_. “And he’ll fill you in on everything, but the short version is that we’re leaving tonight.”

“Who?”

“You and me.”

_Gulp._ “And we’re going where?”

“All in due time, Your Highness.”

“You gotta stop calling me that,”

“S’long as you’re the prince, I’m gonna call you that.” Spot quipped. “I’ll have Mush bring you some food in a little while, and I’ll check in on you, too. When you hear this-“ Race stopped breathing as Spot reached an arm over him and tapped a series of knocks onto the wooden bed frame. “-on the door, wait two minutes and then you can get your breakfast, okay?” Race nodded, not trusting his voice one bit. “You should probably try to get some more sleep, ‘cause we’ll be leaving on foot tonight.”

“Got it.” Spot’s eyes lingered on his face and he looked like he had more to say, but he pursed his lips and nodded, almost to himself.

“Right, okay, I’ll see you later,” Race again had to resist the urge to pull Spot close as he pushed up and off the bed. Spot lifted his arms in a stretch that pulled up the hem of his tunic, revealing the strip of skin just above his hips; Racer didn’t try to hide his appreciative gaze. There were worse things, he mused, than being trapped in Spot Conlon’s room. “I know this might be hard for you, but try not to make too much noise, okay?” Race grinned at the teasing note in Spot’s voice.

“No promises,” Spot rolled his eyes before he ducked out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Race fell back asleep almost immediately, only woken some time later by the series of knocks on the door that announced the arrival of his breakfast. He waited two minutes, as instructed, then slowly pulled the door open and grabbed the tray sitting just outside on the dirt-covered floor. He crossed back to the bed and sat with his legs crossed, tray on his lap. The tray held a flask, a hunk of crusty bread, a wedge of cheese and a shiny red apple. His stomach growled at the sight, and it didn’t take him long to polish it off. He washed it down with the flask, which was filled with fresh, cold water. He put the tray on the dresser and flopped back onto the bed. It was less food than he was used to starting his day with, but it filled him up enough that he nearly drifted off again as he laid there.

He glanced up at the window and guessed it was mid-morning; decided he may as well try to get in some more sleep. It wasn’t like there was much else to do in the small room, aside from twirling his daggers. He pulled the quilt over him and turned away from the window, his back to the door and was asleep again in no time.

He startled awake some time later to the sound of the door closing. It was Spot; he looked a little sheepish at having woken him.

“Sorry,” He crossed to the dresser and opened a drawer, pulling out a rag which he used to wipe his face. Race sat up, taking the opportunity to rake his eyes over Spot. He was dressed in his work clothes, sleeveless shirt, leather apron tied behind his neck, his gloves clutched in the hand that wasn’t holding the rag. “Didn’t mean to wake ya. Just needed to cool down.”

“Hot up there, is it?” Race asked, wondering if Spot noticed how breathless he sounded. He never could quite get over how attractive the blacksmith looked like this, sweaty from work and covered in soot. Spot’s eyes darted to his, holding his gaze as he grinned.

“Yeah, just a bit. S’nice to be able to come down here every now and then.”

“I bet,” Race nodded, tearing his eyes away from Spot’s arms to glance at the window. “What time is it?”

“’Round noon,” Spot answered, dragging the chair from the corner over to the bed and dropping into it. Race was sure he was tired; wished he would just stay, curl up in bed again. “Jack will be here in a few hours.”

“Any news, yet?”

Spot shook his head. “Not yet. Looks like they’re keeping it quiet, for now.”

Race snorted. “My father probably thinks I ran away.”

“I mean, you did, in a way.”

“True,” Race agreed. Suddenly, his eyes widened. “Davey.”

“Sorry?”

“Has anyone talked to Davey? My father probably sent a Delancey straight to his door this morning when they realized I was gone.”

“Oh, actually, I do have something from Davey,” Spot leaned back in the chair, reaching a hand into the pocket of his apron. Race waited impatiently, snatching the crumpled piece of paper from Spot’s fingers the second it was in view. He flattened it against his knee and read it three times.

_I’m fine, I know, we’re all behind you._

“He came by to ‘pick up some horseshoes,’” Spot explained, catching Race’s eyes when he looked up from the note. “He’s okay, Racer.” Relief flooded through him as he clutched his chest, willing his heart to slow down. After a moment, he spoke.

“And what about you?”

Spot frowned. “What about me?”

“Aren’t you tired?”

Spot lifted one shoulder in a shrug, but his eyes gave him away. “Got work to do. We can’t all be filthy rich, Your Highness.” Race rolled his eyes, crumpling the note and tossing it at Spot. He dodged it, grinning, and plucked it from the floor, tucking it back into his apron. At Race’s questioning eyebrow, he explained, “Gonna burn it when I get back to the forge.”

“When is that?” Race asked, trying to keep his tone light. “I mean, you could take a break for a while, right? Take a nap, maybe.”

“Ya lonely down here by yourself?” Spot teased.

“Maybe a little.”

Spot bit his lip, and Race’s eyes followed the motion; he’d never seen him do that before. Never seen Spot look like he needed to make a decision in the moment. Dark eyes glanced at the window, then the door, before settling back on Race.

“Let me run back upstairs for a few and then I’ll come back.”

“Really?” Race’s stomach flipped. He hadn’t really expected it to work.

“I have a pretty light afternoon, Mush can handle it. He knows I’m… occupied today,” There was that smirk Race loved so much. “And I do need to rest before tonight.”

“Of course,” Race agreed, nodding. Spot stood and headed for the door, glancing over his shoulder as he reached for the doorknob.

“Be right back.”

Ten minutes later – not that Race was counting – the door opened again and Spot slipped in, closing it silently. He pulled his apron over his head and hung it on a hook on the door. He was halfway through removing his shirt when he stopped abruptly, seeming to remember Race was in the room.

“Sorry, do you mind if I-?”

Race shook his head perhaps a little too enthusiastically. “Not at all.” He swallowed hard, unable to tear his eyes from the sight. _Holy hell._ He almost wondered if Spot was doing this on purpose, but he pushed the thought from his mind; that was preposterous. If there were any other men in this kingdom like Racer, he was almost sure Spot Conlon, next master blacksmith in line at Kloppman’s, was not one of them. Still, he could appreciate the view – and the proximity. Spot crossed the room to the window, reaching up and shoving his discarded shirt against it to block out the light. It didn’t entirely work, but the room was definitely darker. “Do you want me to mov-“

“No,” Spot answered quickly, glancing toward the door again as he cleared his throat softly. “No, you’re fine.” He looked back at Race, who was sitting with one shoulder leaned against the cold wall. “You can lay down, if you want. Just keep quiet,” he added, smirking.

“I’ll do my best,” Race’s voice came out a little breathy, but Spot didn’t seem to mind as they stretched out, Race on his side and Spot on his back. Race knew he should try to get some more sleep, but he didn’t feel at all tired and he wasn’t going to give up the opportunity to gaze at Spot lying next to him, eyes closed and breathing even. Race studied his face, memorizing the shape of his nose, his lips, the stubble on his jaw. He realized, suddenly, he’d never seen Spot anything but clean shaven – he guessed it would be rather dangerous to have a beard, as a blacksmith. His gaze drifted lower, following the curve of his neck, the hollows of his throat and collarbone, his strong chest, rising and falling gently with his breath. His eyes caught on a series of small scars that began at his shoulder, peppered down the length of his arm; burn marks, he realized. Race had to bite his lip to keep the questions from spilling out. He didn’t want to wake him.

“Hard to sleep with you starin’ like that,” Spot’s low voice startled him, but there was a ghost of a smirk on his face.

“Sorry,” Race whispered. “Was just looking at your scars.”

Spot hummed, opening his eyes halfway as he turned to look at Race. “Plenty of ‘em,”

“They’re from blacksmithing?” Spot nodded. “How old were you when you came here?”

“Ten,”

“And you came from the Refuge?” Spot nodded again, his jaw tight at the mention of the town’s orphanage for boys. Race was quiet for a moment, considering. “Do you like it?”

“Like what?”

“Blacksmithing,”

“Doesn’t matter, does it?” At Race’s confused expression, Spot explained. “It’s a steady job. People are always gonna need weapons and horseshoes. It’s not like I had much of a choice, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was either stay in the Refuge or come here and work,” Spot shrugged. “Not a difficult decision to make.”

Race pondered that for a moment, shame settling heavy in his stomach. Here he was, bemoaning his arranged marriage – quite common for royalty, really – when there were kids in his own kingdom being forced to grow up far too early. _Ten._ His heart ached for the small boy he hadn’t known; for all the boys in that orphanage who weren’t lucky enough to be offered an apprenticeship at Kloppman’s. _What happens to them?_

“Well, you’re good at it.”

Spot smiled softly. “Thanks, Racer.” Race was quiet for another moment.

“What would you do, then? If you did have a choice.”

Spot’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Sorry?”

“If you could choose what to do with your life,” Race felt another pang of guilt at the words; he was far from the only one trapped, here. “What would you do?”

“Dunno,” Spot answered, looking away from Race for the first time and settling his eyes on the ceiling. Race studied his face; the hard set of his jaw, the slight flare of his nostrils, the tension in his mouth.

“You’re lying.” Spot’s gaze snapped back to him, and Race added quickly, “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me.” Their eyes locked and Race’s stomach flipped again at their closeness; he swallowed. “But you can, you know. If you want.” Spot hummed softly, unreadable eyes raking slowly over Racer’s face. Race held his breath, biting lightly on his lower lip in a nervous habit. He watched as Spot’s eyes lingered on his mouth before he nodded his head once.

“I know.” Spot’s voice was a little raspy, and that was about all Race could take. He rolled onto his back, trying to ignore the way their shoulders pressed against each other as he did.

“Get some sleep, Spot.”

“As you wish, Your Highness.”

Race must have fallen asleep too, because the next thing he knew, a series of knocks startled them and they were were scrambling up, Spot instinctively throwing an arm out in defense of the prince. But there was no need, because the visitor was just Jack, dressed in a plain tunic and trousers, no sign of his occupation to be found. Race supposed that made sense, as he would attract attention in his armor. Spot grabbed the shirt from the window to let light back into the room.

“Jack!” Race couldn’t help himself; he jumped up and threw his arms around his friend, squeezing tightly. As much as he was enjoying Spot’s company, it was nice to see another familiar face. Jack chuckled, returning the hug and giving Race an affectionate pat on the back before they stepped apart. Race sat back down on the bed and looked up at Jack expectantly. “So?”

“Well,” Jack’s eyes moved from Spot, still shirtless, to Race and he arched an eyebrow at him before he continued. “Your father is furious, but I’m not sure he completely believes you were kidnapped. But, that doesn’t _really_ matter too much, in the grand scheme.” Race’s ears perked up at that. “Speaking of, I guess I should get around to telling you that.”

“Should I…?” Spot jerked his thumb toward the door but Jack shook his head quickly.

“No, you should be here for this.” Race moved to make room for Spot on the bed as Jack pulled up the chair and sat down. “Okay, here goes,” Jack took a deep breath, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees. “As you know, Racer, your family has ruled this kingdom for generations. The crown’s been passed down from father to son for as long as any of us have been alive, each prince marrying by his twenty-second birthday – usually, well before.” He paused, shooting Race a teasing grin. “What you _don’t_ know is that you are directly descended from the first king of Manhattan; so long ago we don’t even learn about them, anymore. His name was Theodore, and he established the laws of the royal lineage. But they aren’t the rules you know of, today.”

Race’s eyebrows shot up. “Pardon?”

“Let me finish. Remember when you said you’d never seen ‘the rule’ written in a book?” Race nodded. “Well, there’s a good reason for that. The rule your father – and his father, and his father – passed down is not the one put in place by Theodore. It’s not in any book because it’s been twisted from its original form. I can’t tell you what the exact wording is, because I’ve never seen it, myself, but it boils down to this: if the heir to the throne passes their twenty-second birthday without marrying, the decision falls to the people.”

Race’s head was spinning. “What decision? And did you say _their_ birthday?”

Jack’s eyes sparkled; he was clearly enjoying being the one to tell the story. “If a majority of the people agree – and it has to be in writing – then an election will be held, and every adult in the kingdom gets to cast a vote for who they want to become king.” A pause. “Or queen. Because yes, Racer, _their_ birthday; it didn’t have to be you. It could have been Katherine. In fact, it _should_ have been Katherine, if only we’d managed to do this a few years ago.”

Race’s mouth hung open, dumbfounded. This was the opposite of everything he’d been raised to believe, the exact scenario he’d dreamed up countless times in his life as he wished things could be different. The spark of possibility warmed him from within, and he glanced quickly at Spot before looking back at Jack.

“Who’s we?” He asked again. Jack looked instinctively over his shoulder before he leaned in, dropping his voice.

“I don’t want to call it a secret society but, that’s kind of what it is. Like a brotherhood. There’s a bunch of us, Racer, all over this kingdom, working on this plan to take Pulitzer out.” Race’s eyes widened a fraction; Jack smirked. “I don’t mean kill him, I just mean get him out of power. He wants you as king because he thinks he can control you, since you have no real interest in ruling.” Anger flared in Race’s chest for a moment before he considered that; rather shrewd on his father’s part, actually. He probably _would_ have let his father take the reins, had he ascended to the throne. “Some of us are blacksmiths,” Jack nodded his head in Spot’s direction, who smirked. “Some of us are knights, some of us are bakers, court jesters… stable boys,” He added quietly, the faintest blush coloring his cheekbones. Race’s jaw dropped again.

“ _Davey?!_ ” Jack had the audacity to look exasperated.

“Racer, who the hell do you think read all the books and learned about all this in the first place?” Race closed his mouth; oh, that made sense. Jack waved away his shock. “Listen, there’s more you need to know before I have to get back. I can’t be gone too long, I have to head up the next search party.” He paused, grinning as he reached out to shove Racer’s shoulder affectionately. “Smart thinking, with the blood. Probably the only reason your father is taking this seriously.”

Race grinned back, tipping his head in a mock bow as he motioned for Jack to continue.

“The original scroll that holds this rule is here, in the kingdom, we just don’t know exactly where. But we know someone who does.” He took a deep breath and Race frowned, wondering why Jack suddenly looked so nervous. “You know that little cottage, deep in the woods?”

Race raised an eyebrow. “The witch’s house, you mean?” Jack nodded.

“That’s right. She’s not a witch – well, not the kind you’re thinking of, anyway. She makes potions, of sorts, antidotes and medicines and the like, but she’s not actually magic. Her name… her name is Medda,” Jack paused, looking down at his fingers, twisted together in his lap. Race frowned. “I’ve known her for a long time.” Race could feel there was more to the story, but Jack clearly didn’t want to tell him, just now, so he bit his tongue to keep from asking. Instead, he glanced sideways at Spot, startled to find he was looking at him.

“So, is that where we’re going tonight?” Spot asked, eyes flicking back to Jack. Race followed his gaze.

“Yes. You’ll have to leave after dark, and you’ll have to be incredibly careful – the search parties will be going all day and night. I’ve taken care of the shift schedule, so the knights on the west end of the grounds will be our guys, just in case one of them sees you two. But I can’t control the Delanceys, so you’ll need to be quick, and silent.” Race nodded dutifully and he could see Spot do the same in his peripheral vision. “You remember the way, right?”

“Of course,” Race’s nerves were tingling with excitement, not quite daring to believe this could actually work, but willing to try. He looked at Jack curiously, wondering how he could possibly know the witch in the woods. “Jack Kelly, man of mystery… is that even your real name?” He half-teased. Jack smirked.

“She’ll tell you what to do, once you get there. You can trust her, Racer.” He paused. “I trust her with my life.”

“That’s good enough for me,” Race agreed, giving Jack a soft smile. He hoped his friend knew he didn’t need to hide his history from him, and he couldn’t help asking. “How do you-“ But Jack waved off the question, shooting another glance at the window before he stood up.

“Just ask her, she’ll tell you everything. I have to go,” Jack started back toward the door and this time, Race didn’t try to stop him. “I’ll meet you two back here on Sunday, all right?” One hand on the doorknob, Jack grinned as he noticed Race doing the math. “Today’s Thursday. You’ll go to Medda’s tonight, prepare tomorrow and leave Saturday night to find the scroll. Everything will work out, Racer, you’ll see.” And with that, he was gone.

Spot stood, shaking his work shirt out to rid it of dust before he slipped it over his head. Race watched the skin of his torso disappear, flushing when Spot caught him. He cleared his throat and squinted up at the window.

“I have to head back to the forge for a bit,” Spot explained, sliding into his shoes and retrieving his apron from the hook. “I’ll bring us back some dinner and I’ll have-“ He paused, glancing back at Racer and looking him up and down. “I’ll have Tommy gather some of his clothes for you. He’s about your height.” Race huffed a laugh as an image of Tommy’s chiseled arms came to mind; height might be about the only thing they had in common. Spot paused at the door and looked over his shoulder. “When I come back, I won’t leave you again. We’ll head out as soon as it’s dark.” He left.

Race fell back onto the mattress, his mind racing to process all of the information. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself in the face of unexpected possibility. He had a chance to live a normal life. His sister had a chance at the future she craved, and their people had a chance at the queen they deserved. He decided, right then and there, that he would risk everything for that chance, because it meant everything not only to him, but to everyone he cared about. Nervous energy flooded through him but he tried to fight it off, knowing he needed to save it for their journey that night. He forced his eyes closed, knowing sleep was probably not going to happen; instead, he found himself reliving his day cooped up in Spot’s room, Spot’s bare shoulder against his, the rise and fall of his chest as he slept. _I won’t leave you again._

The sun was no longer streaming through the window when Spot returned a few hours later, laden with supplies. Racer changed into Tommy’s black clothes, heartrate picking up when he noticed Spot watching him out the corner of his eye. Long and lean though he was, Racer was very active, and the muscles of his chest and abdomen were clearly defined. He may have turned the shirt over in his hands a few more times than was strictly necessary before he slipped it over his head. Spot tossed him a soft knit hat, which he held up questioningly. Spot smirked.

“Gotta cover up those curls, Goldilocks. You stick out in the dark.” Race rolled his eyes but obliged, pulling it on. The sides of the hat just covered the tips of his ears, the front came about halfway down his forehead. Spot reached out and tucked a stray curl underneath it, nodding in satisfaction. “Good. Let’s eat.”

They tucked into their dinner of surprisingly good stew – apparently, Elmer was a decent cook – finishing quickly and washing it down with water from one of the three flasks Spot had brought. They spent the next hour getting ready, Race filling his belt and boots with his daggers while Spot packed their supplies into a sack, which he secured tightly to his back. Spot sank onto the bed when he finished, watching Race.

“Nice set of blades you got there,” Spot smirked; Race flushed.

“Yeah, too bad the guy who makes ‘em is kind of an asshole.”

“An asshole who’s risking his life for you.” Race chuckled.

“Touché.” He glanced up at the window; it was dark. “Should we go?” Spot followed his gaze and nodded once before he stood up.

“Listen, Jack says you know the way,” Race nodded. “But I want you to stick close to me, don’t run ahead. I can’t protect you if you do.” Race fought off an amused sound at that; Spot had just watched him load himself down with razor sharp weapons, and he was concerned about protecting _him._ It warmed his heart in a way he wasn’t sure it should, but he couldn’t help it.

“Got it.”

“Let’s go.”

They slipped out the cellar door and this time, Race took a look around as Spot locked the door behind them, orienting himself. He knew exactly where he was, now, and he committed the entrance to memory, just in case. They dashed through town, sticking close to the buildings, and climbed hastily over the wall, dropping into the woods on the other side. They moved slowly, to avoid making noise that may attract unwanted attention. Race was sure Jack was right; at least one of the Delanceys was almost certainly prowling these very woods. They followed the curve of the river, ducking behind trees and brush as they went. As they came parallel with the castle, Spot suddenly reached back, throwing an arm out to stop him. He held his breath, knowing Spot could feel his heart pounding under his palm. Spot crouched and Racer followed suit; Spot gripped his shirt and pulled him closer until he was pressed against Spot’s side, breathing softly against his neck. Only the threat of imminent danger kept his focus; this was the kind of situation he’d only ever imagined. After a few minutes, Spot stood up halfway, finally dropping his hand from Race’s shirt as he motioned him to keep moving.

After what seemed like hours – and may have been, for how slowly they were moving – the river curved sharply away from them, alerting Race that they were nearly there. They had to cross a rather open expanse to get to the cottage, and he grabbed Spot’s arm, pushing him into the hollow of a large tree before climbing in after him. He turned and pointed away from the bend of the river, into the glade.

“We have to go that way,” He breathed, eyes darting in every visible direction from their vantage point. “A couple miles or so.” He paused, waiting as Spot took a look for himself. “I think-“ He cut off as Spot reached around from behind him and clapped a hand over his mouth, pressing a finger to his lips urgently. Race shut up immediately, pressing himself as deep into the hollow as he could, trying to ignore the feeling of Spot’s callused palm against his lips, his chest against his back. Then he heard it – footsteps. Race silently thanked Spot for having the sense to cover his hair, as he was certain it was the only reason they were well-hidden in the rotting tree, their clothes blending in seamlessly. He knew there was no way he could hide his racing pulse from Spot now, although he noticed he could feel Spot’s heart hammering against his back.

Sure enough, the Delancey brothers came into view within moments, their backs to each other as they searched the woods, swords out. Race watched, breathing carefully through his nose, hoping against hope they didn’t look too closely at the tree. Spot didn’t move his hand from his mouth as he leaned in to press his lips to his ear; Race couldn’t stop the shiver that ran through him when he breathed, “Face me.”

He turned, slowly, so his back was to the open woods. Race was sure Spot could _hear_ his heart, now. Spot dropped his hand and turned to whisper in his ear again. “They won’t see your face, this way.” Race didn’t dare make a noise as he nodded, dropping his forehead to Spot’s shoulder nervously. He almost jumped when Spot’s arm snaked around him protectively, gripping his waist. They waited for several more minutes, and Race didn’t hear footsteps anymore. He waited until Spot moved his arm and spoke again, still a whisper.

“They’re gone. Let’s go.”

The last leg of their journey went quickly, as they tore through the woods as fast as they dared, darting behind trees along the way until finally, Racer saw it. A beautiful stone cottage barely visible in a copse of trees, moss growing here and there along the roof. Vibrant flowers and herbs grew in abundance along one side of the cottage, a lush vegetable garden on the other. He looked at Spot, who raised his eyebrows in question; Race nodded and in an impulsive gesture, grabbed Spot’s hand. Swallowing when he felt Spot’s fingers wrap around his, he mouthed, “One, two, three,” and they took off, sprinting the rest of the way. Race had just raised his hand to knock when the door opened and a strong hand grabbed his shirt and yanked him inside, dragging Spot behind him.

The first word that came to mind when Racer looked around the interior of the cottage was “cozy.” Every piece of furniture had either a cushion or a blanket draped over the back of it, and a kettle in the hearth was emitting an absolutely heavenly aroma. But none of it was as captivating as the woman in front of them. Medda was draped in a soft velvet robe, the vibrant fuchsia hue contrasting gorgeously with her dark skin. Her hair was gathered in an effortless yet elegant bun, and it was impossible to tell her age; she somehow exuded sophistication and warmth, all at once. She had a kind face, big brown eyes and an easy smile, which she offered them after she locked the door.

“Hello, boys,” Even her voice was comforting; there was something about it that soothed Racer immediately, but he couldn’t quite place it. She squinted at Spot, taking in his dark features, then at Racer. His hair was covered, but those blue eyes were unmistakable. She reached out to take his hands warmly in her own. “You must be Racer.”

Race smiled, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, Miss Medda.”

“Oh, please, just Medda, honey,” She squeezed his hands before dropping them, turning to reach similarly to Spot. “And that makes you Spot, right?”

Spot smiled politely, giving a nod. “Yes, ma’am. Pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine, boys. Anything for Jack Kelly.” She bustled off toward the fireplace, while Race and Spot stood a little awkwardly by the door. She picked up a thick cloth before she retrieved the kettle from the hearth, taking it over to the table where she poured steaming liquid into two waiting mugs. She glanced up as she did, breaking into another friendly smile when she noticed them. “Well, come in, don’t be shy. You are my guests, after all.” She replaced the kettle and pointed to a door off the main room. “That’s the guest room, there.” She picked up the mugs and looked at them pointedly. Recognizing the direction being given, they walked quickly across the room and Racer pushed the door open. The room wasn’t large, but it was at least twice as big as Spot’s small cellar room – and everything in it seemed to be twice as big, too. This room held a bed that looked like it was actually supposed to fit two people, and it looked soft, too; not quite as nice as Racer’s bed, but the mattress was assuredly not stuffed with hay. The blankets looked as soft as Medda’s robe, the pillows fluffy and inviting. The dresser was sturdy, carved from wood, and sat across from the bed, supporting two large, lit candles. Two matching, smaller tables sat on either side of the bed. There was a window on one side of the room, thick, dark curtains hung over it.

Medda followed them in, set the mugs on the dresser and stepped back into the doorway. “There are clean clothes in the dresser, please help yourselves, and do drink the tea,” She nodded toward the mugs, hands folded in front of her. “Can I get anything else for you two before I head to bed?”

Spot’s mouth hung open as he took in the scene, and Race couldn’t hold back a grin; Spot was clearly not accustomed to this degree of hospitality. There was something else about it too, though; Medda wasn’t just friendly, she was… maternal. _Ah, that’s it._ That was the note Race had detected in her voice. It had been so long since he’d heard a motherly tone that he couldn’t recognize it at first. His heart clenched in his chest as he realized Spot had likely never heard anything like it. Race shook his head, pulling his hat off as he did and running a hand through his hair.

“I can’t think of anything, no. Thank you so much, Mi- sorry, Medda,” He corrected, flushing slightly as he smiled at her.

“Good night then, boys. Relax and get some sleep,” She paused, smiling warmly. There was something protective in her gaze. “You’re with Medda, now.” She closed the door.

“Wow,” Race breathed, still staring at the closed door. To say he had never met anyone like Medda would be an understatement. Shaking his head, he turned to look at Spot, who was removing his shoes. Race followed suit before he crossed to the dresser, opening a drawer and poking curiously through the clothes. He pulled out two pairs of silky pants and tossed one to Spot. He couldn’t stop running his fingers over the material. They weren’t linen, not even velvet, but something lightweight and a little shiny. With a quick glance at Spot, Race undressed, hastily unloading his weapons and tossing his dirt-streaked clothes in the corner of the room before slipping into the pants. He nearly moaned out loud as he did – they were by far the most comfortable item of clothing he had ever worn. He didn’t bother finding a shirt as he picked up a mug, bringing it to his nose and sniffing; oh, _this_ was what smelled so good when they came in. “Mmm, God, what even is this place?”

“I don’t know,” Spot sounded as awed as he felt as he arrived at Race’s elbow, reaching for the other mug. “I don’t even like tea but ya know what? I’m gonna drink this, because Medda told me to.” Race laughed, lifting his mug to clink it against Spot’s.

“Cheers,” He said, taking a small sip of the hot liquid; nearly choked when he noticed Spot had decided to forgo a shirt, too. Spot drank, letting out a soft noise of appreciation that shot straight through Racer. _I’m in trouble,_ he thought, not for the first time. He took another, longer drink, closing his eyes as he did; the tea was delicious, sweet and a little creamy, with a hint of spice that warmed him from the inside out. When he opened his eyes, Spot was walking slowly toward the bed, mug in one hand and one of the candles in the other. With a gulp, Race picked up the other candle and made his way to the other side of the bed, setting the candle on the table as Spot had. They set down their mugs just long enough to climb onto the bed, not bothering with the covers just yet, before they picked them back up to finish their tea. It didn’t take long – the tea had started to cool off, making it easy to drink, and they both let out disappointed noises when they found their mugs empty.

Race leaned back into the pillows, closing his eyes and letting out a satisfied groan. He was much sleepier than he’d realized, and the bed was exceedingly comfortable. His muscles, tense from their journey, relaxed into the soft surface as he laced his fingers together behind his head. He cracked an eye open in time to see Spot look away; he felt a flutter in his stomach. “Spot,”

“Hmm?” Spot was leaning away from him, setting his empty mug on the table.

“Let’s just stay here forever,” He heard Spot chuckle before the room suddenly darkened. Spot had blown out his candle before turning back toward Race, slipping under the covers and lying on his side.

“I think they’d find us, eventually.”

“Ugh, you’re right,” Race griped as he turned toward Spot, sliding under the covers. His heart skipped a beat when he realized they were nearly as close as they had been in Spot’s bed, even though this one had much more space. “This place is just so amazing. I can’t even believe it’s real.”

“I know,” Spot said, running a hand over the mattress in the small space between them. “I’ve never felt anything so soft in my entire life.” Race hummed in agreement.

“I mean, these pants? What even are they?”

“Magic,” Spot murmured, and the soft smile on his face was mesmerizing; Race couldn’t look away. Spot looked so tranquil, so content, lying shirtless in front of him, only inches away in this cozy cottage deep in the woods. Race almost let himself forget, for a moment, that they had a job to do. Spot’s voice startled him out of his trance. “Racer, can I ask you something?”

“Sure,”

Spot studied his face. “Why don’t you want to get married?”

Race sucked in a breath, feeling himself flush immediately. “I, uh,” _Smooth, Racer._ “It’s, ah, well… it’s complicated.”

“Complicated how?” Spot frowned in disbelief. “Pretty boy like you? Princesses would be beating down the gates to get a chance with you, I’d think.”

“Would you?” The words were out before Race thought them through. It didn’t occur to him that his question could be taken two ways; he was still reeling from the fact that Spot had just called him pretty. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard it, but seeing as the only other person who had ever called him _pretty_ was a certain redhead… 

“Yeah,” Spot’s voice surprised him again; he hadn’t been expecting him to answer. “Yeah, I would.” Race’s throat was suddenly dry despite the tea. He wanted to tell Spot, he really did. He just… didn’t want to give this up, just yet. He was trying to decide what to say when Spot spoke again. “It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me.” The echo of his earlier words caught his attention and he looked up. “But you can, if you want.”

Race smoothed a hand over the bit of bed between them as he considered this. His heart thudding, he hooked his pinky finger over Spot’s, swallowing when he didn’t move his hand away. He looked up through his lashes and his breath hitched at the gentle look in Spot’s eyes, twinkling in the semi-darkness. His voice only shook a little when he spoke.

“I know.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! You may have noticed the rating for this story has changed from T to M. I want to be clear that there is nothing explicit, but the language in this (and the next couple of chapters) is suggestive enough that I don't feel comfortable with the T rating, anymore. Without further ado...

They slept late, and the room was bright, sunlight seeping in despite the curtains on the window. Race kept his eyes shut when he woke, not at all ready to remove himself from his current situation. He felt warm and safe in a way he couldn’t remember ever feeling before, and he was reluctant to give that up. Finally, he cracked one eye open, frowning in confusion. He could have sworn he’d fallen asleep facing the opposite wall… His breath caught in his throat as he realized the comforting warmth was Spot’s bare chest, pressed against his back, one arm wrapped around his torso. Spot was still asleep. Race held impossibly still, torn; on the one hand, he wanted to stay like this for the rest of time, so intoxicating was Spot’s heat, his scent. On the other, he was terrified for Spot to wake up, to see what his reaction would be.

Race had just begun to extract himself when Spot suddenly pulled him tighter against him. Race couldn’t help but gasp when Spot nuzzled his nose into the side of his neck, eyes fluttering closed at the sensation. _Fuck. This is bad._ He could feel every inch, every muscle of Spot’s chest and abdomen against his back and he’d only just noticed their legs were tangled together, too. His silky pants were doing him no favors and they were uncomfortably tight, his typical morning condition only exacerbated by Spot’s proximity. And if Spot was anything like him, they were moments away from a disaster, if he woke up like this. Race was just trying to decide how best to remove himself when a knock on the door startled them both. He rolled quickly away, turning on his side as he’d been, before Spot was awake enough to realize what had happened.

“Boys?” Medda’s voice drifted through the door. “Come on out and have some breakfast, we have a lot of things to discuss.”

“Coming, Miss Medda,” Race called, heart still racing. He jumped out of bed, pointedly facing away from Spot’s view as he hurried to the dresser to find a shirt. He grabbed the first one he saw and pulled it on, throwing a quick, “Morning!” over his shoulder as he left the room, letting Spot dress in peace.

By the time Spot emerged, Race was already halfway through his breakfast – warm, fresh scones and homemade jam, washed down with a mug of Medda’s delicious tea. Spot slid into the chair next to him at the table, and Racer couldn’t help but flinch when Spot’s hand brushed against his as he reached for the jam. Spot frowned at him, question clear in his eyes but Racer ignored it in favor of turning in his seat.

“This is delicious, Miss Medda,”

“Just Medda, sweetie,” She reminded him gently as she made her way over to the table, settling gracefully into an empty chair.

“Right,” Race grinned sheepishly, daring to glance sideways at Spot. “Sorry.”

“I take it you slept well?” She asked, and Race was sure he detected a mischievous twinkle in her eye. He was about to answer when Spot beat him to it.

“Never better,” Race turned to look at him, noticing suddenly that he still had a line on his cheek from the crease in the pillow. The sight was intimate and domestic in a way that made the back of his neck burn as he remembered how he’d woken up. He hastily shoved the rest of his scone in his mouth, nodding his own answer. They finished off their breakfast, and then it was time to get down to business.

“Where to begin?” Medda wondered aloud.

“Oh, please, Mi- Medda,” Race stuttered; manners were hard to forget, for a prince. “Can you tell us about Jack, first?” When Medda’s eyebrows rose in question, he explained. “He said to ask you how he knows you, that you would tell us everything.” Another pause. “It’s just… he’s my best friend, and… and he’s never even mentioned you before. So I just… I just need to know. Please.” Medda’s eyes softened and she smiled, nodding.

“At the beginning, then. Of course. Let me see…” She trailed off, staring just over their heads as though watching her memories play out. “It’s been… nearly twenty-five years, if my memory serves. It was late, and I had just pulled back the blankets to get into bed when I heard it. It was so quiet, I thought I’d imagined it, at first; but I opened the window and, sure enough, I heard it again. I thought it was an animal, perhaps, a baby goat wandered off from its farm. But then the breeze shifted, and the sound came through clear as day – it was a baby crying.” Race gasped quietly, already enraptured by the story. “I ran out and around the side of the house, listening, following the sound. I had to head toward town, a ways, and for a moment there was no sound at all, and I feared something had gotten to the baby before I could. That, or I was losing my mind,” She looked back at them now, giving a self-indulgent smile. “But a few minutes later, I heard it again, so I started running, and then I saw him.” _Him?_ “Just a tiny thing, bundled up in rags, perched on a jagged tree stump. Screaming his little head off, the poor thing. I picked him up and soothed him as best I could, let him suck on my finger a little to calm him down, while I looked for his parents. Or anyone, really,” She sighed wearily. It was clear this memory still hurt. “But I figured out soon enough that he had not been left by accident.”

“Wait, so someone just abandoned a baby in the middle of the woods?” Spot interjected, frowning. Race studied him, a small smile on his face; for someone who had grown up in the Refuge and then a blacksmith’s forge, Spot had a big heart. “Who would do that?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised, honey,” Medda shook her head sadly. “Some people… some people believe that if their baby isn’t thriving, if it’s too small or cries too much or not enough, that it’s not actually their child, anymore. That their child has been replaced by a faerie changeling. They believe that if they leave the child in the forest, the faeries will come and take it back, leaving their stolen child in its place.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Spot huffed.

“I agree,” Medda nodded. “But unfortunately, that doesn’t change anything. Most of the time, a child will die in the woods before their parents can return to get them – if they return, at all. I wasn’t about to take that chance with him.” Race could hear that maternal affection in her voice again, her warm brown eyes sparkling. “So, I brought him home with me, and I raised him as my own. I named him Jack Francis, a strong, sturdy name I knew he would grow into. He was mine, and mine alone, for seven blissful years,” Medda’s smile was blinding now as she remembered. “He helped me around the cottage, helped me garden, we played games in the forest, I read him books and told him stories, taught him how to read. But then he began to fashion swords out of sticks, and he’d run through the woods all day, fighting dragons and beasts as Sir Jack. ‘Just like in the stories, Mama!’ He’d say. And I knew,” Medda’s voice wavered, her fond expression turning suddenly sad. “I knew I had to do right by him.”

Spot and Race waited silently, captivated.

“This-“ She gestured with open palms at the cottage around them. “This is no life for a young boy, certainly not one as special as Jack. He deserved a chance – they all do, every single child in every kingdom across this land – and I knew I had to give it to him. So, I forged his papers, secured him a horse, and I sent him to your father. I gave him the surname Kelly; I knew that was an old family name in Richmond, and I knew that your father, greedy as he is for protection, would not inquire any further into his family history. And that is how my boy, my Jackie, became Sir Jack Francis Kelly of Manhattan and, of course, your best friend.” She reached across the table to squeeze Race’s hands, which he returned, his jaw tight.

All this time, he’d assumed Jack had come from nobility, and had treated him as such. If he had known… Medda must have read the shame on his face because she gave his hand another squeeze and he looked up at her.

“I told him never to tell, Racer,” She explained, understanding clear in her gaze. “All he ever wanted was to become a brave, valiant knight, and I told him that if anyone ever found out where he’d come from, that wouldn’t be possible. So he had to keep it a secret, even from you.” Suddenly, the corner of her lips perked up in a devious, somewhat familiar grin. “In fact, I’m the one who told him to start the rumor that an evil old witch lived here.”

Race huffed a laugh at that, leaning back in his chair. All those years, all those days of tromping through the woods, taking turns pretending to be the wicked witch who loved to cook and eat children, and Jack had had to hide the truth the whole time. He picked up his mug, draining the rest of his tea to soothe his dry throat. He couldn’t help the guilty pang in his chest, regardless of what Medda had said. He’d gone too long only caring about his own problems – and what problems! How insignificant they seemed, in comparison to what Jack had gone through, what Spot had gone through. What all those other boys and girls in the orphanages faced, every day. Even the kids with parents were suffering, and for what? So his father could further line his already deep pockets? Throw even _more_ extravagant parties and feasts while his citizens struggled to put food on the table? _No._ Not anymore. Guilt made way for determination and he set his mug down a touch too forcefully, grimacing as he did.

“Sorry about that, Miss Medda,” He waved off her correction before she could say it. “I’m sorry, it’s a habit. Listen,” Race leaned forward to take her hands again, looking steadily into her eyes. “Thank you. Thank you for going and finding him, thank you for keeping him. Thank you for raising him to be who he is. I am eternally grateful to have Jack in my life and you’re the reason for that.” Medda’s eyes glistened as he spoke. “He’s risking everything for me, and now I need to do the same for him. And not just for him, but for my kingdom – for my people.” He let her hands go and sat up straight with his shoulders squared, chin up. He could feel Spot watching him. “Tell me what I need to do.”

Medda explained his mission in great detail. The original scroll which held the law of the land was located in the chapel, which overlooked the graveyard on the east end of the castle grounds. It was old and decrepit, more than one stained glass window having been smashed out over the years. Race knew his father had been talking about tearing it down to build a new, more magnificent chapel, but he hadn’t managed to get the project officially underway. Racer was grateful for that now, as he and Spot spent most of the afternoon plotting their route. He would need to crawl through one of the broken windows and activate very specific stones, which were embedded in the floor. A secret alcove would reveal itself along the western wall, and that is where he would find the scroll. Medda drew him a detailed picture of the stones, which he studied until he could recall it from memory.

They stayed at the table for most of the day, maps of the kingdom cluttering the surface as they planned, scrapped the plan and planned again, until Race thought he might lose his mind if he had to look at one more map. His muscles were screaming from hours of sitting, pent up energy threatening to explode out of him if he sat there for one more minute. Unfortunately, it still wasn’t safe for them to leave the cottage in the daylight, so they were rather stuck. _What I wouldn’t do for a hot bath, right now._ Pushing the thought from his mind, he reminded himself that was yet another luxury he’d grown accustomed to, for no good reason other than he’d been born into royalty. Race was poring over the map, tapping his fingers anxiously against the table when Spot suddenly grabbed his hand, stopping the motion abruptly. Racer’s head snapped up, startled.

“What are you doing?”

“You need to stop.”

“But the plan-“

“The plan is done, Racer,” Racer bit his lip, eyes darting to the table as he realized Spot hadn’t let go of his hand. “You need to walk away from it before your brain melts out of your ears.” He snickered at that, the visual it conjured chasing the chapel and spiderweb-covered scrolls from his mind. Spot was right, he realized with a sigh. He supposed he’d lost himself a little, the desire to rectify years of inaction driving him. But he sat back in his chair as Spot released his hand; Racer lifted it to run it through his tangled curls.

“You’re right,” He mumbled, turning to look at Spot. As he looked, he was reminded of the night before, the way he’d looked before they’d fallen asleep – Spot had looked content, a little soft around the edges, almost dreamlike. He’d grown so used to seeing Spot in his element, the loud, blistering heat of the forge that it was still shocking to see him like this, devoid of soot, relaxing in clean, soft clothes. Perhaps he’d been avoiding this, too; avoiding looking at him too closely, remembering the way it had felt that morning when he’d woken up, curled tightly against Spot’s chest. “What should we do, now?”

“I’ll tell you one thing,” Medda interjected as she swept through the room on her way to the garden. “There’s a beautiful natural hot spring, not too terribly far from here, where you can go and… ah, clean up.” Race snorted; at least she was trying to be polite as she informed them that they needed to bathe. “But don’t go just yet, dears. It isn’t safe, in the light. You can go later, after the sun has set.” With that, she whirled out the door, humming to herself.

They decided to get away from the table and they moved to the sofa by the hearth, where they found a stunning, hand-carved chess set to keep them occupied for the next few hours. Spot won four games to Racer’s two, though the prince was having trouble focusing. Those charming smirks, that deep, raspy voice, the accidental brushes of their hands as they moved pieces were wrecking his concentration as he tried not to think about soft beds, or hot springs or-

“Checkmate.”

“Argh,” Race groaned in frustration, falling back against the cushions.

“I’m startin’ to think chess is not your game, Your Highness.”

“I told you to stop calling me that!” He snapped; he regretted it immediately when he caught sight of Spot’s shocked expression. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees as he dropped his head into his hands. For the first time in days, he wished he had a drink. At least then, maybe he wouldn’t be so jumpy.

“S’fine,” Spot said gruffly as he carefully reset the board.

“It’s not,” Race grumbled into his hands before he lifted his head to look at Spot. “Hey,” He waited until Spot looked back at him before he continued. “I mean it. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. You haven’t done anything wrong. In fact,” Race sighed. “You’ve done everything right, you’ve gone above and beyond what I ever would have expected from you. I’m just… I’m just nervous, I guess. I want this all to work out.” _Need it to work out._

“It will,” Spot said confidently, his hand twitching in Racer’s direction before he dropped it back on the sofa.

“I just feel terrible,” Race muttered, his gaze dropping again to his hands, twisting in his lap. “All this time, I could have done something. Could have really helped my people. But instead I found ways to feel sorry for myself,” He laughed bitterly. “Wallow in my own miniscule problems.”

“Hey,” Spot’s voice was quiet but firm; Race breathed in sharply through his nose when he felt fingers grasp his chin, tipping his head up and toward Spot. “That doesn’t matter.”

“Fuck it doesn’t-“

“It doesn’t,” Spot was more forceful now, and Race found he couldn’t look away. “You’re doing something now, aren’t you? That’s what matters, Racer. That’s what your people will remember.” Race swallowed around the lump in his throat. He nodded, unable to find sufficient words. He hoped Spot was right.

Medda entered then, and Spot dropped his hand back to his lap as they both tried to settle casually into the sofa. She paid them no mind as she headed to the kitchen, unloading her garden’s bounty onto the wooden slab that served as a workspace. In no time at all, she’d whipped up an outrageously delicious vegetable soup that they scarfed with fresh bread, mumbling thanks and praise around full mouths of food. Medda retired to her room around sunset, reminding them again about the hot springs – as if Race had been able to forget – and they bid her good night.

As the last bits of golden sunlight streaked through the windows, Race decided he couldn’t stall any longer. He stood, stretched, and started toward the guest room to retrieve clean clothes.

“Where ya goin’?” Spot asked, looking over his shoulder at him.

“It’s dark enough now, figured I’d head to the springs and get cleaned up.” Race paused in the doorway as Spot stood and walked over to meet him. He bit his lip nervously. “Are you coming with me?”

Spot nodded resolutely. “If you go, I go.” Race felt a flutter in his chest; he could almost hear ‘Your Highness’ following that sentence, but Spot had refrained.

“Get some clothes, I’ll meet you outside.”

The springs were a decent hike away from the cottage, down sloping hills Race hadn’t seen before; he’d never been this far north. They spotted the misshapen boulder Medda had told them to watch for, and turned toward the west, the sky pale with the fading sunset. The ground began to change as they walked, replaced by a rocky terrain. The spring came into view suddenly: flat stone gave way to a deep, clear pool, a nearly perfect circle, perhaps eight feet in diameter. Race could see faint steam clinging to the surface of the water before it disappeared, the early summer air not cool enough for it to linger. He gulped. He had assumed there would be more than one pool, the way Medda had described them. He chanced a glance sideways at Spot, who didn’t seem to be bothered as he was already stripping off his shirt and shoes, dipping a toe experimentally into the water.

“Oh, my God,” Spot’s voice was reverent and it was doing dangerous things to Race as his hands lingered at the hem of his shirt. “It feels amazing.” Spot’s eyes flicked to him and he realized he’d been staring. He turned, giving Spot some semblance of privacy so he could remove his pants and get in. Race turned back around once he heard the movement of the water. He watched Spot for a moment as he moved, wading around the small pool.

“How deep is it?”

“Dunno,” Spot held his breath and sunk under the water; he came up a moment later, wiping his eyes. “Pretty deep. But there’s a ledge over here,” He swam to one edge of the pool, his back against the stone as he sat. He was visible from his chest up, and Race bit his lip as he took in the sight; Spot’s skin glistening with fresh water instead of sweat, not a smudge to be found as the droplets clung to his dark hair and eyelashes. _This is bad._ But he didn’t have much of a choice – the longer he waited, the harder it would be to get in. He took a deep breath and stripped quickly, flushing when Spot turned his head slightly to allow him to slide into the water.

Despite the warmth of the evening air, the water was heavenly. He hadn’t had a proper bath in days, and he marveled over the fact that this one would never get cold. He slipped underwater, raking his fingers through his hair to remove the dirt and grime. When he emerged, Spot was watching him, dark eyes unreadable. Race swam for a few more minutes, watching the stars emerge in the darkening sky. There were fewer trees here to block the view. The silence was comfortable, if a bit unusual; normally, at least Race was running his mouth about something. He racked his brain for something lighthearted, but he came up empty. He was about to make a comment about the weather when Spot spoke, his voice quiet but clear.

“The orphanage.”

“Sorry?” Race lifted his head to look at him. Spot was staring into the water, his eyes far away. He looked a little nervous.

“What I would do, if I could choose.” Race swam over to where Spot was on the ledge and sat, turning to face him. They were only about a foot apart, now. The movement seemed to snap Spot’s trance and he looked up to meet his eyes. “I’d run the orphanage. After I kick the shit out of Snyder, I mean.” Race snorted; he’d heard more than enough horror stories about the man who ran the orphanage to know he deserved that, and more.

“What would you do differently?”

“I’d feed ‘em, for one,” Spot chuckled softly; Race grimaced. “More than once a day. Make sure they all had their own bed, and clothes. I’d have someone come and teach ‘em how to make and mend their own clothes, how to make shoes… give ‘em skills, you know? Real skills they can use when they grow up, so they don’t end up beggin’ on the streets for coins that they go and drink away at the tavern.” Race swallowed, listening to him talk. Spot sounded like he knew more than one former Refuge inhabitant who had gone down that sad road. “Send a few of ‘em down to Kloppman’s, so Mush and Tommy and Elmer could train ‘em, and-“ He stopped suddenly. “Sorry,” He mumbled, raking a hand through his wet hair. “I’m rambling.”

“No, go on,” Race said quickly, scooting closer without meaning to. “I’m very interested.” But Spot lifted his chin, one corner of his mouth quirking up in that trademark smirk.

“What would _you_ do?”

“Me?” His voice came out in a squeak, and he cleared his throat. “What would I do if what?”

“If you were free.”

_If I were free._ Race sucked in a breath, mind racing. _What would I do?_ Spot was quiet, waiting patiently. “I suppose… I suppose I would like to help with the orphanage,” Spot smiled at that, nodding to encourage him to continue. “I’d love to have Snyder marched through the streets in chains. I guess I’d also like to help the kids in other ways.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, educating them, maybe?” As soon as he said it, he could see it: instead of a new chapel, a school – in town, so it was accessible for all the children, orphans included. He immediately envisioned Davey in front of a room of eager kids, hanging on his every word as he taught them to read and write. “Yeah, a school. I’d build a school, right in the middle of the town, and I’d have Davey teach the kids – oh, he’d be _so_ good at it, and I bet Sarah would help, too. And Jack! Jack could teach them to draw, he’s always sketching landscapes and horses and D-“ He broke off suddenly, flushing. He’d almost spilled a secret that wasn’t his. But Spot didn’t seem to have noticed; he was still looking at Racer, the fondness in his gaze impossible to mistake for anything else. Race bit his lip as he looked back, pulse racing. He felt as though he were teetering on the edge of a cliff; the dark, intimate setting, deep in the forest, the soothing warmth of the springs, Spot’s closeness – and nudity, Race remembered with a start – and the way he was looking back at him, almost encouraging. One push, he knew, and he’d tumble over that edge. That push came only a moment later when Spot spoke, his voice quiet.

“Racer?”

“I don’t like girls,” Race blurted, the words coming out in a jumbled rush. He froze; maybe Spot hadn’t understood him, and he could play it off as something else. But when Spot’s eyes widened a fraction and he opened his mouth, Racer knew. He gulped.

“What-“

“It’s why I don’t want to get married, Spot.” Race’s eyes dropped to Spot’s throat, unable to hold eye contact any longer. “I’m not… interested in women… like that.” He finished finally, his heart hammering in his chest.

“I see,” Spot’s voice was soft, so soft Racer almost didn’t hear it. His heart lifted, the smallest bit. Spot didn’t sound angry, which he supposed was a good sign. Race licked his lips, holding the bottom one in his teeth. “So you’re interested in-“

“Men,” Race supplied for him, lifting his head even as he flushed. He suddenly needed to see Spot’s face, see his reaction for himself. “That’s right.” Spot’s lips were slightly parted, his eyes darker than Race had ever seen them as they stared into his. As he looked, Spot closed his mouth and swallowed, the movement of his Adam’s apple drawing Race’s gaze momentarily away from his face. His heart fluttered; if he didn’t know any better, he’d think Spot was intrigued by this revelation.

“Any-“ Spot broke off, clearing his throat suddenly. “Any particular… man?” Race’s breath caught in his throat. _Did he really just…?_ The air was thick between them as he looked again into those eyes, so beautiful and dark. Race watched as they roamed over his face, lingering on his mouth as Spot waited for him to answer.

“Y-yes,” Race admitted, willing his voice to stay steady. “You know him, in fact.”

“Do I?”

“Quite well,” Adrenaline was driving him now, blood pounding in his ears. “Works at the forge.”

“Are you going to tell me, or do I have to guess?” Spot was grinning at him now, and it gave him courage, even as he nervously dropped his gaze. _Here we go._

“It’s you.” There. He said it. It was out. He panicked over the decision for a moment; Spot still had to finish this dangerous mission with him, and they had to sleep in the same bed when they returned to Medda’s. But he couldn’t take it back – and now that it was out, he found he didn’t want to. He felt almost light and he sat up straighter, holding his shoulders back. He wasn’t hiding anymore, not pretending to be someone he wasn’t, someone he would never be. With new confidence he looked up, daring to look into Spot’s face, whose mouth was open again in shock. “Of course it’s you. Can’t you tell?”

“I-I, well, I thought,” Spot stuttered, and it was somehow endearing. “I thought maybe, but I couldn’t be sure-“

“Spot,” Race laughed, lingering adrenaline making him feel almost giddy. “Do you _really_ think anyone needs that many daggers?” Spot smiled at that, and the sight was so radiant, so surprising and warm that Race couldn’t help himself. He leaned forward and closed the distance between them, pressing his lips firmly against Spot’s. His eyes fluttered shut as a shiver ran down his spine, despite the warmth of the spring. Spot’s lips were soft, damp from the water, and it only took a second before he responded. Spot pressed back into him eagerly, making a sound in the back of his throat that sent a jolt straight through Race. He felt almost as though he’d been struck by lightning. He felt Spot’s hand snake around to grip the back of his neck and his bones turned to jelly. This was _everything._ He let Spot move him close as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss. Race circled his arms around Spot’s neck as he pressed himself impossibly closer, hyper aware of their lack of clothing. When Spot’s fingers moved into his hair at the back and gripped tightly, Race gasped his name against his lips and Spot pulled back. Their noses touched.

“Racer-“

“Don’t stop, please,” Race breathed back, searching Spot’s eyes for signs of discomfort and finding none; Spot looked back, seemingly doing the same before he groaned and leaned in, capturing the prince’s lips again. The sound made Race’s stomach flip and they surged into each other. Spot’s free hand came to the side of Racer’s neck, thumb running along his jaw as they kissed. Race kept one arm locked around Spot’s neck as the other hand roamed over his shoulders, his chest, his arms, all the parts of him he’d literally dreamed about touching, his fingers dipping along the curves of his muscles. He was sure, any moment, he would wake up back in his room, bed littered with empty wine bottles. But then, Spot’s hand drifted down, down his chest and into the water, down his side to grip his hip. Race gasped as he felt himself move through the water until he was in front of Spot, one knee on either side of his hips so he straddled him on the ledge. He pulled back, panting, one hand splayed over Spot’s heart; he could feel it racing. That wasn’t all he could feel, either; Race swallowed hard, knowing Spot could feel him too, and it wasn’t sending him running through the woods. That must mean…

“Should we, maybe,” Spot was breathless, and the sound was doing destructive things to Race’s self control. He rolled his hips, drawing a groan from the blacksmith that bordered on obscene. “Shit, Racer,” Spot’s head fell back and he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before he looked up again. Race couldn’t decide which sound he preferred; the moans or his name, and decided he would have to investigate further to find out. “Should we head back?” The implication was heavy in his words and Race couldn’t answer quickly enough.

“Yes,” He nodded and, just because he could, he ducked down to kiss him again, whimpering when Spot responded eagerly until he had to pull back to catch his breath. Spot’s voice was low when he spoke.

“Let’s go.”

They dried off as quickly as they could with their old clothes, hastily pulling on the new ones before dashing through the woods back to Medda’s, almost forgetting to watch for search parties as they went. But they made it, stumbling through the door and to the guest room as quietly as they could manage. Once inside, Spot closed the door and caught Race’s wrist, pulling the blonde to him and spinning so that he was pinned against the door, held in place by Spot’s hips. Race melted into the kiss, sure his legs would give out if Spot weren’t holding him up. This was everything he’d ever imagined and more, somehow – so much more intense than anything he had ever experienced. He snaked his arms around Spot’s neck, pushing away from the door and walking them to the bed, where they fell in a tangle of limbs.

Later, Race curled into Spot, his head resting on his chest, fingertips tracing lazy patterns into his skin. Spot’s arm circled him as his fingers played idly with Racer’s curls. The quiet was comfortable, heartrates settling into normal ranges as they caught their breath. Spot’s voice was a little raspy when he spoke.

“I like you too, by the way.” Race grinned.

“I never would have guessed.” He deadpanned, earning a huff of amusement. “Seriously, you’re not the most… expressive man I’ve ever met.”

“I’ll work on that,” Spot said dryly. “Couldn’t have the blacksmith be seen gettin’ too friendly with the prince, you know?” Race hummed a response, moving to wrap his arm around Spot’s torso as he pressed himself closer. Spot was quiet for another moment. “You’re not the only one.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re not the only one like you – like us, I mean – in the kingdom,” Spot clarified. Race tilted his head to look up at him, eyes questioning. “There may be one or two in the forge, too.”

“It’s Tommy, isn’t it?” Spot’s jaw dropped.

“How did you know?”

He grinned, shrugging a shoulder. “Just a hunch.” Spot smirked.

“Kinda like you had a hunch back there at the spring, right?” Race laughed softly and pressed a kiss to Spot’s chest.

“Something like that.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiii I'm not gonna take up too much time up here but I do want to say, and this is a first for me, trigger warning? For violence? I know, it's unusual but, there it is. I'm editing the last chapter as we speak so it won't be much longer til this is complete. Thank you so much for reading!!

When Race opened his eyes the next morning, the first thing he registered was that same warm feeling he’d had the day before. But this time, he didn’t run; he didn’t have to worry about what Spot would think when he woke up. He looked down, a thrill coursing through him at the sight of Spot’s strong arm wrapped protectively around him, fingers intertwined as he held their hands against Race’s chest. Everything they had done the night before, Racer had experienced. But this? This was new, and this was perfect. He let himself imagine, for a moment, what it might be like to wake up like this every day. He peeked at the window, guessing it was still fairly early, and closed his eyes again, wanting nothing more than to stay here for as long as he possibly could.

He felt Spot shift behind him, a content hum reverberating through his chest as he stirred. Race saw stars when he felt lips along the back of his neck, pressing a line of soft kisses just below his hairline. He gasped, and the sound apparently pleased his companion because Spot moved his hand from Race’s chest to his hip, still kissing his neck but not quite as softly as before. Instinctively, Race rolled his hips back, and the movement drew desperate sounds from them both.

“ _Shit_ , Spot,” Race breathed, swallowing. “Good morning,”

“Good morning, indeed,” The husky quality of Spot’s voice sent a wave of heat through him, and he was suddenly overcome with a desire to see his face. He rolled in his arms, biting his lip when he caught sight of those dark eyes, the flush high on his cheekbones. Spot leaned in and kissed him hungrily, lighting a fire in Race’s stomach unlike any he’d ever felt. He wrapped an arm around Spot’s neck and pulled him closer, hooking a leg over his hip as he did. The resulting contact below the waist broke their kiss as they pulled back, panting. Spot brushed a curl from Race’s forehead, looking into his eyes. “Do you want-“

“Yes,” Race interrupted, a hand snaking into Spot’s hair and guiding his mouth back down. Spot moaned in agreement as he happily obliged the prince’s wishes for the next hour, at least. In truth, they lost track of time, and the sun was high and golden by the time Medda knocked gently on their door, announcing breakfast.

After scarfing down the leftover scones and jam, Medda left them alone again, retreating to her bedroom with a basket. Spot suggested they go over the plans again, and as much as Racer wanted to drag him back to the bedroom, he nodded in agreement. They spread out the maps, quizzing each other on every step until Medda returned, basket filled with dried herbs and flowers Race didn’t recognize. They watched her curiously as she went to her workspace and laid them out. She retrieved a large stone mortar and pestle from a cupboard and set about grinding the herbs into dust. She hummed as she worked, and Spot and Race were mesmerized as they watched. Race nudged Spot’s foot under the table, barely suppressing a grin when Spot wrapped his leg around Racer’s ankle affectionately. Finally, Race couldn’t stand the suspense any longer.

“What are you doing, Miss Medda?” Race had given up trying to call her by her first name, and Medda had given up correcting him.

“Hmm?” She hummed distractedly, glancing up. “Oh, just mixing a little something Jack asked me to send home with you. Do make sure it gets to him, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Race agreed immediately; he’d only known her two days, and he already felt like he would do anything Miss Medda asked of him. He wanted desperately to ask her what it was, but he assumed she would have told him, if she could. _Jack and his secrets._

She fixed them lunch after she finished with the powder, which she secured in a drawstring pouch and gave to Race before she left again. He put the pouch in their room with the rest of their supplies, the curiosity nearly killing him. But he distracted himself with another few rounds of chess with Spot at the kitchen table and this time, they won three games each. In the afternoon, Racer was feeling antsy; he hated waiting around all day for something big to happen, and this was _big._ He was tapping his feet and fingers in unison until Spot suddenly grabbed his hand, not unlike he had the day before; although this time, he didn’t relinquish it so easily. He turned Race’s hand over and ran his fingertips lightly along his palm, the inside of his wrist – it sent sparks shooting through Race, who wouldn’t have thought it possible for so gentle a touch to come from the blacksmith. It was surprisingly soothing, and he let out a great sigh as he melted into the chair. Spot gently turned his arm over, running his fingers now along the healing cut Racer had made there, nights before. The sight of it jolted Race upright, eyes lighting up.

“Spot,”

“Hmm?”

“Can you teach me some of the moves you used on me the other night?” Spot’s eyebrows rose in question. “Just in case we see the Delanceys again.” Spot pondered for only half a second before he nodded, pushing off the table and standing up. He motioned for Race to follow him into the open space of the cottage, away from any furniture. They squared up, Race mirroring Spot’s stance.

“Lunge at me,” Spot instructed and Race did as he was told, albeit slowly, so he could track Spot’s movements. Spot deftly knocked his hands out of the way, wrapping his fingers tightly around Race’s wrist and spinning him until he was trapped as he had been in his room. Spot let him go and they moved through it a few more times until Race nodded, indicating he was ready to give it a go. He succeeded on his first try, and warmth radiated through him at Spot’s impressed expression. He instructed him to try again and adjusted Race’s grip on his wrists until it was nearly as tight as Spot’s had been. Race repeated the movement a third time, not going easy on the blacksmith; he smirked in triumph when Spot was unable to pull his hands free.

“Good,” Spot praised, looking over his shoulder at him. “This is the moment to pull out your blade, by the way.” Race nodded in understanding and let him go. They began again, and this time Spot showed him how to get out of a similar position by stomping on an opponent’s foot and throwing his head backward, into their face – Race particularly liked that one. They practiced a little more and Race found he already knew some of the moves from training with Jack and Albert, but he let Spot walk him through them anyway, grateful for the distraction from the slow passage of time.

Spot showed him another combination that involved striking specific points of his arm and taking advantage of momentary weakness to slip behind him, snaking a strong arm around his neck and applying gentle upward pressure to his throat. It wasn’t enough to actually hurt him, but Race could feel his airway begin to constrict and he gasped instinctively. He could also feel Spot’s torso pressing into his back, and the combination made him a little dizzy; well, _that_ was something he didn’t know about himself. He tried to focus on what Spot was saying to him.

“If you can get ‘em like this, keep chokin’ ‘em until they pass out. It’s real tough to get out of this position, once you’re in it.” He let him go and stepped back, nodding at Race to give it a try. Race was sure his accelerated heartrate was a contributing factor as he nailed it the first time. He swore he could hear Spot’s breathing pick up as he held him flush against him. He felt Spot swallow against his arm and heard the smile in his voice when he spoke. “Stronger than you look, Your Highness.” Race leaned down slightly and grazed his ear with his teeth; grinned wickedly when Spot inhaled sharply and gripped his bicep in response.

“Come off it,” Race laughed softly in his ear. “You’ve seen me without a shirt.” He tightened his grip infinitesimally, dropping his voice. “I thought I told you to stop calling me that,”

“Yeah well, I’ve never been great at following orders.” Spot’s voice cracked on the last word because Race moved his lips just below Spot’s ear and nipped gently with his teeth. He had to bite his lip at the low sound that Spot made in his throat.

“We’ll have to work on that then, won’t we?” Race eased off, allowing Spot to turn and look at him. Race jerked his head toward the guest room and Spot all but dragged Race through the door. They managed to find a way to pass the time until dinner.

Finally, darkness fell and it was time to get ready. They dressed in their black clothes, Spot adjusting Racer’s hat to ensure his unruly curls were sufficiently covered. They repacked their supplies, including the pouch, into the sack and Spot tied it tightly to his back while Race loaded his belt with blades. He slipped the tiny one into his boot with a wink at Spot, who smirked back. He bit his lip, considering, before he removed the hand-sized dagger from his belt and held it out to Spot. Spot studied it, a smile playing on his lips that made Race think he knew _precisely_ which one it was. He tried to refuse but Race insisted, stepping forward to tuck it into Spot’s belt himself. He found a place on his own belt to hook the short, hollow tube Medda had given him to protect the scroll. They had just sat down at the table to go over the plan one last time when Medda swept through the door, holding a wooden bowl. She set it on the table and sat down in an empty chair. Race peeked at the bowl; it looked like it was filled with dirt. He’d only managed to raise an eyebrow in question before she spoke.

“Yes, it’s dirt,” She answered his unasked question, smiling. “It will help you blend into the woods.” Race was still confused, but Spot chuckled in understanding.

“You spread it on your skin, Racer. Like this,” Spot dipped his fingers into the bowl, picking up a small handful. It looked slightly damp, a suspicion that was confirmed when Spot rubbed it onto his face and it smeared, instantly obscuring his skin. Race grinned.

“Aww, Spotty,” The nickname slipped out without his permission; Spot’s eyebrow shot up but he said nothing. “You look like yourself again, all smudged and dirty.” He barely had time to giggle before Spot scooped his hand into the bowl and reached out, spreading dirt across Race’s face. Medda chuckled as she watched them paint each other, laughing. She didn’t even seem to mind the mess they made of her table. Their laughter gradually subsided once they were both covered, and Race immediately jumped up to sweep the spilled dirt back into the bowl with his hands, muttering apologies that Medda waved off. She was watching them with an inscrutable look on her face; Race thought she looked worried, and maybe a little sad. It reminded him that their job was far from over. She motioned for him to sit down and he obliged, exchanging a nervous look with Spot when she took one of each of their hands in hers.

“Remember,” Her voice was low and solemn, eyes intense as she looked between them. “In and out, as quickly as you can, then hightail it back to your safe place.” She paused, intensity fading to affection as she squeezed their hands. “Watch out for each other.”

“We will,” They said in unison, eyes flicking to each other before back to Medda. She smiled.

“Of that, I have no doubt. Good luck, boys.”

The chapel was located on the east side of the grounds, a lengthy hike from Medda’s cottage in the northwest. It was far more risky a location than the cottage had been, given its prominent spot on the lawn and its proximity to the main part of the castle. It was still close to the edge of the grounds, though, and that meant the forest would conceal them for most of the journey, so long as they didn’t run into any errant knights. They crept through the woods in much the same fashion as they had on their first journey, eyes darting in every direction and ears perked for human sounds before they dared move. This time, though, Spot didn’t let go of Race’s hand even once.

They moved closer toward the castle as the woods began to thin, hoping against hope that Jack had taken care of the search party schedule again – if they ran into more than one knight, they didn’t stand much of a chance of overtaking them. They had just pulled parallel with the chapel when Spot suddenly fell to the ground in a rustle of leaves. He cursed softly and Race dropped to his knees beside him, anxiety spiking.

“What happened?” He whispered, frantically looking up and around them before back at Spot.

“Twisted my ankle,” Spot hissed, dirt-streaked face in a frustrated grimace. “Stepped in that hole.” He nodded and Race followed his gaze; it was impossible to tell, in the dark, if the hole was man- or animal-made, but it made his heart thud nervously. He gulped, looking back up at the bit of the castle grounds they could see. They were so close.

“Can you walk?” He breathed, eyes wide as he watched Spot stretch his leg out experimentally. He rolled the injured ankle but stopped abruptly, biting hard on his lip to keep from cursing again.

“Maybe, but I shouldn’t go into the chapel with you,” He met Race’s eyes in the dark, worry clear in them. “I’d slow you down.”

“But-“

“Go, Racer,” Spot insisted as he grabbed for Race’s hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “I mean it. I’ll wait here. I’ll be fine.”

“Spot, I can’t-“

“You have to,” Spot was urgent now as he lifted Race’s hand to his lips, pressing a quick kiss to it before dropping it. “There’s no time.” Race bit his lip, hesitating. “Go.”

He knew Spot was right, but it didn’t make it any easier to stand up halfway, still crouching as he reluctantly walked away from him, toward the grounds. He chanced a glance over his shoulder, relieved to see Spot had already hidden himself well enough that he was out of sight. He drew a deep, stabilizing breath, and crept to the edge of the forest.

The most nerve-wracking part was surely dashing from the edge of the woods through the graveyard to reach the chapel; if anyone happened to be looking out of a window… Race shook his head, drawing his shoulders back. He couldn’t think about that, now. He needed to get in, get out, and get back to Spot as quickly as possible. He counted himself down in his head and tore across the lawn, dodging gravestones, diving and rolling behind the chapel once he got close enough. He pressed himself against the stone, catching his breath as he waited; one minute went by, and no one jumped out of the shadows to arrest him. Staying close to the wall, he crept his way around the chapel until he found an open window, jagged pieces of stained glass still clinging to its edges. He pulled himself up and through it, dropping lightly to his feet once inside.

Race took a quick look around the inside of the chapel, allowing himself to breathe a quiet sigh of relief when he found it deserted – he’d half-expected his father to be waiting for him in a pew. Recalling Medda’s beautiful hand-drawn map in his mind, he searched the floor by the altar for the marquise-shaped stones he needed to open the hidden door. It was difficult in the dark, but he thanked his lucky stars that Medda was as talented an artist as Jack – oh, that was starting to make sense, too – because after a moment, he found them. Race put the ball of one foot on each stone, counted to three, and stood on them simultaneously. Nothing happened at first, and panic bloomed in his chest before he heard it: a low grinding noise of stone on stone from somewhere to his left. His head whipped around; nothing seemed to have changed. He knew it had worked, so he cautiously stepped off the stones, holding his breath as he feared the door would close. But no more sound came, and he hurried to the western wall, feeling with his hands in the darkness. He pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, wishing he had thought to bring some sort of light. His hand suddenly dipped into the wall and he stumbled, cursing softly. He stopped, splaying his hands out in the recess and feeling nothing but cold, dusty stone until-

He gasped as his fingers touched on what was unmistakably some sort of parchment. His hands trembled as he pulled it out of the alcove, fumbling to remove the cap on the tube hooked to his belt so he could slip it safely inside. Heart pounding, Race stood rooted to the spot for another moment; had Medda told him how to close the alcove? Or was it just meant to stay open, now? His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden noise, barely audible inside the chapel but his head snapped toward the sound; it came from the woods. _Spot._ Alcove be damned, it could stay open for all he cared. He double-checked that the tube was closed and attached before he scrambled through the dark chapel, nearly tripping in his haste. He exited the same broken window he’d entered, hardly bothering to look left to right before he dashed between the gravestones to the trees where he knew Spot was hiding. He registered a sudden, stinging pain in his shoulder and grimaced; he must have caught himself on one of the shards of glass on his way back through. But he had no time to stop.

Race slowed once he entered the woods, backtracking until he found the area of the ground that was slightly disturbed, leaves strewn; this must be where Spot had fallen. He felt around with his toe, heartrate picking up when he found the hole Spot had stepped into. So where was he? Race looked frantically in every direction, biting his lip to keep from calling out for the blacksmith. Spot was apparently well-hidden for a reason, and the mystery of that reason sent anxious chills up Racer’s spine. Instinctively, he dropped to the ground, eyes still combing the area for any sign of Spot. His heart jumped into his throat when his hand ghosted over something cold, hard, and decidedly not natural. He closed his fingers around the object, lifting it to his eyes to examine it. It was a key. His stomach lurched as he turned it over in his fingers, panic rising as he realized it was wet; the liquid was too thick and warm to be water. Not wanting to believe the obvious, he threw caution to the wind and whispered, “Spot?” When he received no response, he cursed under his breath, fingers closing painfully tight around the key he knew would open the forge’s cellar door. Spot was gone.

“Well, good evening, sweet prince,” The voice, quiet and taunting behind him, froze him in place. “Looking for this?”

The voice did not belong to Spot; not to anyone Race had ever wanted to see or hear again. He gulped and slipped the key safely into his boot before he looked over his shoulder. Oscar Delancey stood a few feet behind him, sword in one hand, a small drawstring pouch dangling from the other. Race’s jaw clenched; _where is he?_ Oscar took a step closer, the tip of his sword only inches away, now.

“Or are you looking for your partner in crime?” A malicious sneer took over the knight’s features at Race’s worried eyes; he was clearly enjoying himself. “You see, your father had a feeling someone might try to break into the chapel, so he assigned us to watch over it.” Race said nothing, breath coming quickly through flared nostrils. He wasn’t afraid of Oscar, had bested him with a sword more than a few times in friendly – friendly taken with a _big_ grain of salt – competition, but only one of them had a sword, just now, and Race was at a disadvantage from his position on the ground. “I have to say, Your Highness, I didn’t expect to see you here. Your friend, on the other hand…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “He’s a fighter, that one.”

“Where is he?” Race ground out through gritted teeth. Oscar laughed coldly.

“Oh, worried, are we? I suppose you ought to be. I’m a little embarrassed to admit that it took both of us to subdue him, but no matter, we managed. He fought hard for you, though.” Racer kept his eyes on the sword, calculating; he knew Oscar wouldn’t hurt him too badly, his father would have forbidden that. “He’ll be in the dungeons, by now.” Panic must have been evident in Racer’s eyes because a demented smile crept across Oscar’s face. “If I didn’t know any better, Your Highness, I would say someone is a little _sweet_ on the blacksmith…” Oscar gasped softly, eyes glinting. “Oh, that’s it, isn’t it? Won’t Daddy be interested to hear about the golden boy’s little secret-“

“You son of a bitch-“

“Your Highness,” Oscar clutched at his chest with the hand that held the pouch, feigning shock. “Such language, tsk tsk. You kiss your mother with that mou-“

Race didn’t give him a chance to finish as he suddenly swiped at Oscar’s wrist, knocking the sword from his grip. He lunged for it, his fingers just brushed the handle when he was suddenly jerked backward by his shirt. He grunted in frustration as Oscar yanked him to his feet, one arm wrapping around his neck while the other dangled the pouch in front of his face. Oscar held him tight as Race gripped his forearm, trying to pry it away from his throat. He panicked for a moment before Spot’s face swam in his mind’s eye, and he grinned dangerously. Race stomped hard on the small bones of Oscar’s foot; his heart leapt when the knight shouted, his grip loosening slightly. Race took advantage of the distraction and threw his head backward. The sickening crunch of bone on cartilage reverberated through his skull and he grimaced at the pain in the back of his head. Oscar dropped his arm, hands coming instinctively to cup his almost certainly broken nose. Satisfaction coursed through Racer when he saw blood dripping through Oscar’s fingers, staining the strings of the pouch he still held.

Race slipped behind the knight and slid his arm around the other man’s throat, locking his grip with his other arm and pressing upward mercilessly until he felt Oscar go limp, nails no longer scratching at Race’s arm as his hands fell to his sides. Race dropped him unceremoniously on the ground, bent down to retrieve the pouch and stood, panting as his heart raced. He hooked the pouch securely to his belt and nudged Oscar with a toe; he was out cold. Race swallowed hard, his entire body buzzing with adrenaline and terror. He needed to get out of there, and fast. If anyone were in earshot, they’d be heading his way soon, and he couldn’t rely on the hope that they would be on Jack’s side. But he hesitated, biting his lip so hard he tasted blood, duty warring with instinct in his chest. He _wanted_ to sprint to the dungeons and rip the bars out of the walls with his bare hands. But even as he thought it, he knew what Spot would say, what he already _had_ said by leaving the key for him to find. _Get back to the forge and wait for Jack. Your people need you._

Racer hesitated for only another second before he cursed and took off running through the woods toward the town, not stopping for anything. His lungs burned and his face and arms were covered in small, bleeding scratches by the time he reached the wall, leaping halfway up its height before he threw himself over it. He stumbled when he landed, lurching sideways as his ankle screamed in pain but he didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down as he sprinted through the quiet streets. His fingers shook as he retrieved the key from his boot, its slick surface making his heart leap into his throat as he struggled to fit it into the lock. Finally, the door clicked open and he nearly fell down the smooth stone stairs on his way to Spot’s cellar room. He let himself in and slammed the door behind him, hardly caring how much noise he made.

He fell back against the closed door and his legs gave out. He slid to the floor, breath coming in panting gasps as he trembled, the key still clutched in his hand. It was pitch black in the room, and he couldn’t see the blood between his fingers but he could feel it, cool and sticky and it sent a wave of nausea through him. What had they done to Spot? His heart clenched in his chest and he tried to focus on breathing, on calming his racing pulse. He would be no good to anyone like this, in a panicked heap on the floor. He took one deep, deliberate breath in and blew it out slowly; it helped, a little, but blood still pounded in his ears. Race tried to focus on the facts. He had the scroll. He had the pouch, whatever it was. He’d managed to escape Oscar, albeit not entirely unscathed – one hand lifted to touch the back of his head, grimacing when he felt the drying blood matted in his curls. He was safe, for now, in this room. But his safety didn’t bring him any peace when he knew Spot was locked up in the dungeons, and he had no way to know how badly he was hurt. The thought sent his heart racing again and he groaned desperately, his head falling back against the door. 

Race was still slumped against the door, hours later, when a series of knocks startled him awake. Weak, early morning sun lit the room; he must have drifted off at some point. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the soreness in his ankle as he threw open the door. He nearly dropped to his knees again in relief at the sight.

“ _Davey_ ,” He gasped, throwing himself at his friend. Davey stumbled a little in surprise, closing the door behind him as one arm grasped the prince. “They have Spot-“

“Shh, Racer,” Davey wrapped his other arm around him in a fierce hug; Race didn’t realize how much he needed it and he sank into him, locking his hands behind Davey’s back. Davey held him for a few minutes until his breathing slowed, patting his back comfortingly. “Sit down, let me have a look at you.”

Race stepped back reluctantly, wiping at his eyes as he backed toward the bed and fell into a seated position. Davey pulled up the chair, reaching for Race’s hands.

“You’re bleeding-“

“It’s not my blood,” Race’s voice came out in a whisper and he gulped before clearing his throat. His trembling palms were stained red, dried blood gathered in sickening clots between his fingers. His stomach lurched; being able to see it in the light was so much worse and he forced himself to look up. “I think it’s Spot’s. They took him, Davey.” His voice shook and he saw Davey’s brown eyes soften.

“We’ll get him back, Racer.” Davey’s voice was confident, reassuring and Race felt his heart lift, the tiniest bit. “Did you get the scroll?”

Race nodded and unhooked the tube from his belt, holding it out weakly. Davey took it and set it on the dresser behind him.

“And the pouch, from Medda?” Despite his worry for Spot, Race furrowed his eyebrows; so Davey knew about the pouch and Medda, too? He unhooked it, holding it gently in his hand. Davey reached for it, but Race didn’t hand it over.

“What is it?” He squinted at Davey, suddenly realizing something. “Wait, where is Jack? He’s supposed to be the one meeting me today, isn’t he?” Davey nodded hastily.

“Yes, but your father won’t let him out of his sight, after what you and Spot did to the Delanceys,” Davey smirked in satisfaction, but Race couldn’t bring himself to share in the humor. If his father suspected Jack… Davey must have read the worry on his face because he waved a hand dismissively. “No, that’s a good thing. It means he trusts Jack completely. He’s holed up in his chamber right now with Jack ‘guarding’ him. He’s scared, Racer.” The smirk turned to a genuine smile, small though it was. “We’ve got him surrounded.”

Race’s exhausted brain struggled to keep up. “Wait, what do you mean, what _we_ did to the Delanceys?” He couldn’t help but be surprised by the malicious glee in Davey’s expression; he never would have expected it from his gentle, studious friend.

“Well, Oscar’s nose is shattered, his foot is mangled, and Spot managed to slice Morris’s leg pretty good before Oscar knocked him out with his sword.” Race’s heart lifted; maybe the blood wasn’t Spot’s, after all. He was infinitely glad he’d made Spot take his dagger, now. He tried not to think about how much Delancey blood lingered on his body as he tried to keep up with the ever-changing situation.

“So now what?”

“Now, you wait here-“ Race interrupted him with a groan. “No, listen. I have to get this-“ he plucked the pouch from Race’s hand. “Back to the castle, but it’s not safe for you to stay here anymore, since Spot’s been exposed. Mush will come get you soon and smuggle you into the blacksmith cart, which he’ll bring to the stables, later. I’ll hide you in my room until tonight.”

“What’s tonight?”

“No time to explain right now, Racer. I have to get back.” Race let out a frustrated noise; he was getting _very_ tired of hearing that. Davey, observant as ever, suddenly leaned forward and wrapped his arms around him in a tight embrace. Race breathed in deeply, inhaling the familiar scent; it calmed his nerves, just a little. Davey paused at the door, hesitating before he spoke again. “Try to rest, okay?”

Race snorted as Davey left; rest was the furthest thing from his mind. He sat for a moment, tapping his fingers nervously against his knees before he noticed a flask on the dresser; their extra one from the other night. He jumped up and swirled it, sighing in relief when he heard liquid sloshing inside. He took a long gulp before pouring it over his hands, scratching at his palms to remove as much of the dried blood as he could. His gaze caught on the myriad of small scratches and cuts decorating his forearms, more than a few from Oscar’s nails as he choked him out. Gulping, he tore off his shirt, using it to scrub away the dirt and dried blood from his face and arms, dabbing gingerly at the gash on his shoulder. He wiped his hands on his pants and opened a drawer. He rummaged through it and changed quickly, grateful to be out of his dirty clothes. After a moment, he sank back onto the bed and laid down, curling onto his side. He inhaled Spot’s scent on the pillow and it simultaneously soothed his frayed nerves and filled him with hollow dread. He drew a shaky breath, trying to remind himself how much he trusted Jack and Davey. Davey seemed confident, which gave him a sliver of hope as he forced his eyes closed, willing his body to calm down.

All he could do was wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _almost_ didn't put the Davey bit in this chapter but I didn't want to end on another cliffhanger. Also I'm sorry 🙈


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look. I have no sense of what a posting schedule is/should be like, but these are the facts: there are two chapters left, one is done, the other is thiiis close and I'm going out of town on Monday, SO. Chapter seven tonight, eight sometime on Sunday. Okay? Okay. Glad we had this talk. There's some more violence in this one. Oh, and this might be the longest chapter in the entire thing. (That's not true, four is longer, but still) Please enjoy!!

Racer didn’t sleep a wink.

He didn’t have much time to, though, as Mush came knocking on the door well before midday. Race hastily searched Spot’s small room for any of his belongings before following Mush out the door. He led him through a series of hallways, up a set of stairs and to a large storage room, of sorts. Tools and discarded projects littered one corner of the room, but most of the space was taken up by a wooden cart. It was rectangular and flat, with wooden guard rails on the sides to keep the metalworks secure when transporting them through the kingdom. Race glanced over his shoulder at Mush, who had picked up a large, scratchy blanket and was looking at him expectantly.

“Your carriage, Your Highness,” Race wondered if it was Kloppman or Spot who’d taught the blacksmiths sarcasm.

“Just Racer, Mush,” Race corrected almost wearily but he climbed into the cart, curling on his side to make himself as small as possible. Mush gave him a pile of black cloth, which he stuck under his head as a makeshift pillow, and a key. At Race’s confused expression, Mush leaned in and dropped his voice conspiratorially, even though they were alone.

“It’s a skeleton key. Opens all the chains and locks in the dungeons,” Surprise must have been evident on his face because Mush grinned, eyes twinkling. “Who d’ya think made ‘em, eh?” Race returned the smile as well as he could and tucked the key into his boot. Then Mush loaded the cart with random objects, being sure to throw in several horseshoes before covering him with the blanket. Race felt him adjust the blanket until he was satisfied.

“Tommy’ll take you up to the castle soon, a’right Racer?” Race could tell Mush was a little nervous to use his name. He peeled the corner of the blanket back so he could look at the blacksmith.

“Thank you, Mush, really,” He tried to imbue his words with meaning as he made eye contact. “For everything.” Mush nodded solemnly in response, his easy smile nowhere to be found.

“You just get Spot back.” Race nodded, his throat tight as he replaced the blanket.

Race didn’t have to wait long to feel the cart begin to move, albeit slowly; the blacksmiths didn’t get their physique just from metalworking. They also had to pull their cart across town by themselves, when they had big or special orders – such as those that might be delivered on castle grounds. Technically, Race could have had any and all of his custom daggers delivered to his door, but he didn’t see the fun in that. He much preferred visiting Spot in his office and savoring those few moments of alone time-

He shook his head forcefully to focus on the task at hand. Spot wasn’t in his office, just now. He was locked in the dungeons in Racer’s _home_ , and thinking of it that way sent another sickening wave through his stomach. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the bumpy ride. He made a mental note to gift Kloppman’s with a horse or two when this was all over.

Finally, the ride smoothed out and Racer could tell they were on the grass, now. He hardly dared to breathe, as though his father could somehow sense that he was back on castle grounds. The cart came to a stop and he waited, trembling; it was only then he remembered he’d had nothing to eat since dinner at Medda’s the night before. He held his breath as he heard voices, only letting it out when he recognized them as Davey and Tommy, idly discussing horseshoes as they came closer to the cart. The end of the blanket lifted and he took the hint, sliding out of the small space, clutching the pile of cloth to his chest. He wasn’t sure what it was for, but he knew it had to be important. He crouched behind the cart once outside of it, looking quickly around: he was on the far side of Davey’s cottage, between it and the town – not visible from the castle. He let out a shaky breath, still not daring to stand up straight as Davey caught his eye and jerked his head subtly toward the cottage. Race mouthed ‘thank you’ to Tommy, who winked without halting his conversation, and scrambled inside.

The cottage was empty, which was to be expected for the middle of the day. Esther and Sarah would be in the castle, Mayer would be in the stables, and Les would almost certainly be under Specs’s feet in the kitchen. Race quickly made his way to Davey’s room, which he now shared with Les instead of Sarah. He tossed the pile of cloth onto the bed and collapsed onto it, realizing as the pile fell apart that it was a bundle of black clothes. The nostalgia ran deep here, and he drifted off for a few minutes before Davey joined him, closing the door softly behind him. Davey gently moved Racer’s legs out of the way and sank onto the end of the bed.

“Racer,” Davey’s voice was soft too and Race turned on his side, peeking his eyes open. “Do you want to talk or rest?”

“Neither,” Race mumbled even as his eyes closed again. “I wanna go get Spot-“

“I know, I know,” Davey was intentionally making his voice soothing now, and even as Race knew it, he couldn’t fight it. “We have a plan for that too, Racer, you just have to be patient.” Race snorted. “I know, you’re the most impatient person to ever walk the grounds of Manhattan but just- just trust me, okay?”

“I do,” Race sighed, dragging his eyes back open to stare at the wall. “I’m just worried. I’m afraid they’re starving him in there. Or worse.”

“I know.” Davey was quiet for a moment, just watching him. “We’ll have him out by tonight, I promise.” Race lifted an eyebrow, pushing up on his elbow to look at Davey.

“What’s the plan?”

Davey bit the inside of his cheek, glancing at the closed door before turning back to Racer. “Okay. So, the pouch that Medda gave you?” Race nodded. “It’s something like a sleeping potion. Sprinkle it in someone’s food or wine, and they’ll be out cold for a solid twelve hours. Tonight, Specs and Romeo will make sure your father and both the Delanceys get a… healthy dose in their dinner,” One corner of Davey’s mouth rose in a mischievous smirk Racer wasn’t sure he’d ever be used to seeing. “Once they’re asleep, Jack and a few of the other knights will take them down to the dungeons and lock them up until we can carry out the election.”

“And what about-“

“Spot, yes, I know,” Davey was smiling now, no mischief to be found in his soft eyes as he patted Racer’s leg comfortingly. “Once it gets dark, you and I will go get him out.”

Race’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re coming with me?”

Davey looked mildly affronted. “Of course. Who else?” The easy determination in his tone warmed Race’s chest and he sat up to hug him tightly.

“Thank you, Davey,” He whispered against his shoulder. Davey squeezed him before he let go and sat back. The knot in Race’s stomach loosened slightly; this was a good plan, with a fairly low chance that it all went horribly wrong. A sudden bolt of panic seized his chest. “Shit, the scroll!”

“What about it?”

“I left it in Spot’s room, we have to-“

“No, that’s good,” Davey said quickly. “The rest of the guys will take it and start going door to door through town, recording votes while we work on taking care of your father and the Delanceys. It’ll take a couple of days to get done, so the sooner they start, the better.”

Race breathed a sigh of relief. He still had trouble wrapping his head around the idea. All these knights, blacksmiths, and everyone else all conspiring against his father right under his nose. _And yours,_ Race reminded himself with only a little bitterness. He was quiet for a moment.

“Davey,”

“Hmm?”

“Why didn’t you… why didn’t you just tell me about all of this?” Race stared at Davey until he met his eyes. “Did you think I wouldn’t—”

“No, no of course not, Racer,” Davey hurried to reassure him, pulling his long legs up under him on the bed. “We knew you would be on board. But…” He trailed off, looking reluctantly away. Race clenched his jaw, waiting. “It all happened really quickly, within the last few weeks. And you’ve been… not all there, for a while now.” He paused. Race gulped; Davey wasn’t wrong. “We weren’t sure you could… handle it, if we told you everything.”

That sent Racer back into the bedframe with a huff. Part of him wanted to be angry, to feel betrayed that his supposed best friends had kept this enormous secret from him. But the larger part, the weary part who now had an intimate understanding of just how big and dangerous this secret was, knew it had been the right move. He felt the now familiar guilt creep back in as he thought back over the previous weeks. There had hardly been a day in recent memory that he’d made it to dinner entirely sober, and almost none where he’d made it to bed without at least one bottle of wine. Or ale, or whatever he could get his hands on. He couldn’t blame Jack and Davey for keeping this from him, because it wasn’t just about him. Sure, he benefited from the outcome – assuming it turned out the way they wanted – but this was about the people, more than him. This was too important.

“That… was probably a good call, Dave.” Racer spoke quietly, fiddling with his belt. “I wouldn’t have trusted me, either.”

“It’s not like that,” Davey insisted, reaching out to shake Racer’s leg affectionately. “It’s not that we didn’t trust you. Of course we trusted you – you’re the one who went and found the scroll, remember?” Racer managed a soft smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “It all happened so fast, and we were sneaking around enough. We didn’t want to take the chance of your father catching on.” Race nodded as Davey spoke, a rather mischievous smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Speaking of sneaking around…” He trailed off, looking meaningfully up at Davey, who flushed. Racer’s smile widened. He was glad he wasn’t the only one who blushed easily. “How long have you and Jack…?”

“Oh, that,” Davey laughed nervously, one hand coming up to the back of his neck. Race nudged him with a toe.

“Yes, _that._ ” He felt another pang in his chest before he added quietly, “You could have told me that, at least. Thought you’d know that.”

“I do- we do, Racer,” Davey hurried to assure him, cheekbones still tinged pink. “It’s never about trust. You know we trust you to hell and back. It was more that we didn’t want to… rub it in, I suppose. Until we were sure this plan would work, and that we could actually pull it off, we didn’t want to remind you that you weren’t really in control of your future. Of your spouse.” Racer laughed; Davey’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “What’s funny?”

“You were already rubbing it in,” He answered, shaking his head. “Anyone with half a brain could see it. Just most people don’t watch you two as closely as I do, I guess.” He nudged Davey again, smiling when his friend looked up to meet his eyes. “I’m happy for you, Davey. I would never begrudge you or Jack your happiness, no matter what happens with me and-“ He broke off, swallowing. Thinking about Spot was still difficult, knowing he was trapped in the dungeons as they spoke. Davey was quiet for a moment.

“We’re going to get him out, Racer.” Race nodded, his throat tight. “Hey,” Davey coaxed. Race looked at him. “It’s not all bad, right? Did you or did you not get to spend the last several days _and nights_ with Spot Conlon?” Race grinned in spite of himself.

“I certainly did,” He admitted, feeling his cheeks warm. “Guess that’s why Jack picked him for the mission, huh?” Davey raised his eyebrows briefly.

“Well, Jack probably would have picked him based on that alone, but it helps that he’s dangerous as hell… oh, and he also volunteered.” Davey added as though it were an afterthought, shrugging a shoulder nonchalantly. Race’s breath caught in his throat.

“He… _what_?” Race supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised, considering what had happened between them in the forest, at Medda’s. But he couldn’t help it. He hadn’t considered the idea that Spot liked him enough _before_ all this to risk everything for him. It sent his heart racing again. All he could see in his mind’s eye was Spot, hunched against the dark, damp stone walls of the dungeons, in chains. He set his jaw. “Davey, we have to get him out.” When Davey started to speak, Race cut him off. “No, I mean _now._ Why can’t we just go now?”

Davey sighed. “Spot managed to cut Morris in the woods, but he didn’t hurt him badly. Oscar can’t walk, so he’s hidden away with your father. But Morris was furious – and embarrassed, I’d say – so he’s taken it upon himself to guard Spot’s cell personally. Besides,” Davey went on, his eyes sympathetic but resolute. “You’re supposed to have been kidnapped, remember? It’s broad daylight. We can’t take the chance of someone seeing you, someone who’s not with us. And I know you haven’t slept- no, don’t argue. I’m going to get you some food, and then you’re going to sleep in here until I come back to get you, got it?” When Race opened his mouth to argue, Davey stood and pushed on his shoulder until he fell against the pillow with a defeated sigh.

“Yes, sir,” He grumbled even as he felt the exhaustion his nerves had kept at bay. Davey snorted, moving toward the door. Race carefully pulled off his boots, setting the skeleton key and his small blade safely on the table next to Davey’s bed, followed by his remaining dagger. His stomach was still in knots, but he managed to keep down the bread Davey brought him. He washed it down gratefully with fresh water from the well before he stretched out and was asleep in no time.

It was nearly dusk when Davey woke him gently, holding a tray with two steaming bowls of stew. One sniff told Racer without a doubt that Esther had made it, and he sat up quickly, grabbing for it. He scarfed it, hardly caring about the fact that it was a touch too hot. Davey picked at his own bowl from his spot at the end of the bed, looking pensive. Racer was about to ask him what he was thinking about when Davey’s door suddenly burst open and Sarah rushed in.

“Dave- Racer!” Sarah’s voice rose in pitch in her surprise, and Race quickly set his bowl aside at her frazzled appearance. She was flushed, panting; long strands of brown hair that had fallen loose from her side braid fluttered as she threw her arms around the prince. Race barely had a chance to hug her back before she stood, looking frantically between them. “They took her.”

“Wha- who?” Davey managed, looking as confused as Race felt.

“Katherine,” Sarah’s voice broke on the word, panicked eyes welling with tears. Race felt the room tilt sideways. His pulse pounded in his temples. “They took her to the dungeons.” Sarah choked out, fat tears spilling down her cheeks. It was only then that Race noticed the dried track marks already on her face; he supposed the wind must have dried them as she ran from the castle.

“Oh, my God,” Davey muttered, standing up to hug his sister fiercely. Race’s stomach lurched. He felt frozen, stunned. His father had thrown his _own daughter_ in prison because he feared losing his power – and she didn’t even have anything to do with it. The stew threatened to come back up, and he had to fight to keep it down. Worried as he was for Spot, he knew the blacksmith could handle himself; knew he’d be okay as he waited for them to rescue him. But his sister? He couldn’t even conjure an image of her being walked through the halls of the dungeons, let alone locked behind the bars. He swallowed hard against the nausea; he couldn’t even think about it. Racer snapped.

“That’s it,” He stood, muscles already tensing for a fight. “We’re going. Now.”

Davey looked over his shoulder from where he still held his trembling sister, but he said nothing. He knew better than to stand in the way of either Racer or Sarah getting to Katherine if she needed them. He nodded resolutely, turning back to Sarah to wipe her tears away. Racer felt a rush of pride when he noticed Sarah had already stopped crying, the desperation in her eyes replaced with a fierce determination that left no doubt as to how she felt about the princess. He reached out and grasped her shoulder tightly. They locked eyes and he nodded, jaw tight as he tried to convey his appreciation and she nodded once in return, mouth set in a hard line.

“I’m coming with you,” She said forcefully, putting a finger to Davey’s lips when he tried to argue. “You’re not in charge of me, Davey. I’m older than you. I’m coming.” Her eyes suddenly lit up and she looked between them, removing herself from Davey’s embrace. “I know how we’re going to get in. I’ll be right back. Watch for me out the window.” She dashed out of the room before either of them had a chance to reply or inquire as to what the plan was, now.

Jaw clenched tight, Racer quickly changed into the clothes Mush had provided, tossing a shirt and pants to Davey, who followed suit. Neither of them said a word as Race slid his blade back into his boot and hooked the skeleton key securely to his belt with the dagger. They made their way over to the window to watch for Sarah’s return. It was getting darker by the minute; his father would be eating dinner in his chamber, now. Race’s stomach was in knots. How his father could stand himself, could get food past his lips when his daughter was in chains- _No. Focus, Tony._ Katherine’s voice in his head grounded him. He swallowed, tapping his fingers against the stone window ledge as his heart pounded almost painfully in his chest. Finally, he caught sight of movement on the grounds. Sarah and another girl from the laundry were dashing across the lawn, pushing the large cart they used to transport linens through the castle. Race thought he could see where this was going. He hurried to the front door with Davey on his heels, nearly forgetting to wait until Sarah had reached the front of the cottage to open the door and head out.

He and Davey rode impatiently in the cart as the girls trudged back across the lawn, their combined weight making the trip slower than Race felt was strictly necessary. He had half a mind to jump out of the cart and sprint the rest of the way when suddenly, he could feel stone beneath the wheels instead of grass, and he knew they were close. The laundry area of the castle was on the same floor as the door leading to the dungeons, which was typically guarded by at least one armed knight. Sarah pushed them into the laundry room where they scrambled out of the cart and gathered by the door. She poked her head out, looking both ways down the hall before squinting at the entrance to the dungeons. She closed the door and turned to them, speaking quickly and softly.

“No one is guarding the door,” Race couldn’t help but feel uneasy about that; it reeked of a trap. But he couldn’t find it in him to care who or what was waiting for them on the other side of the door – the adrenaline alone made him sure he’d be able to go right through anyone standing between him and his sister. He could feel the same energy rolling off Sarah in waves, and after a quick glance between the siblings, he made a decision. He unhooked the skeleton key from his belt and thrust it into Sarah’s hands.

“Here,” He said, his voice steady. “Take this. It’ll open any lock on any chain or door in the dungeons. Davey, go with her, and take this,” He paused, removing his last dagger from his belt and holding it out to Davey, who held his hands up in refusal. Race huffed, shoving the blade into his hands. “There’s no time to argue, Dave! We can get them both out in one fell swoop if we focus, and hurry. Are you with me?”

Sarah nodded without hesitation, holding the key so tightly her skin turned white around it. Davey only hesitated for another second before he nodded, gripping the dagger the way he’d been taught.

“I’m with ya,” He agreed, squaring his shoulders. “Let’s go.”

They dashed down the hall, hardly caring who saw them anymore as Race threw open the door to the dungeons. They crept as silently down the stairs as they could, considering their haste. They didn’t see another soul, and the fact filled Race’s stomach with dread rather than relief. There was _no way_ his father would have imprisoned his own daughter without stationing a few of his trusted guards at her cell. Jaw still clenched almost painfully, Racer looked left to right when they reached the bottom of the stairs. Two halls, identical down to the torches placed periodically along the walls. There was no way to tell which way to go. He dug his nails into his palms, torn. Just then, Sarah spoke.

“Katherine!” She nearly shouted; the sound made Racer jump in surprise. His hand was halfway to her mouth when they heard a faint response down the hall to their right. She hardly spared them a glance before she took off, sprinting down the hall. Davey wavered only for a second before he tossed a quick, “Good luck,” over his shoulder to Racer and followed her, dagger in hand. Race’s legs twitched in the same direction before he stopped, taking a deep, steadying breath. Sarah was more than capable of taking care of Katherine, and Davey was well equipped to defend them both. Racer’s father may not have suspected the quiet stable boy, but his father never trained with him. Reluctantly, he let them go; Spot needed him, now.

Race turned on his heel and hurried in the other direction, heart pounding. He wasn’t entirely sure how he was going to open Spot’s cell now, without the skeleton key, and the only weapon he had left was the spear-shaped blade in his boot. He gritted his teeth, hands clenching and unclenching as he looked into cell after cell; when he got his hands on Morris…

“Well, well, well,” Race stopped dead, rage flaring hot in his chest at the familiar, jeering tone. “Isn’t this sweet?”

Out of the shadows, Morris Delancey walked slowly toward him, limping slightly as he favored his left leg. Race couldn’t help the satisfied smirk, brought on by the fact that his dagger, in Spot’s hand, had caused it. He lifted his chin, shoulders squared defiantly as the taller man came into view.

“I have to say, Your Highness, you’re becoming rather predictable,” Morris taunted as he swung a set of keys from his finger. Race’s eyes locked on them; gods, these two were stupid. “Oscar told me you’d show up sooner or later to rescue your lover boy.” He chuckled, cocking his head as he stopped a few feet in front of Racer, blocking his way down the hall.

“And you think you’re going to stop me?” Race snarled, hardly recognizing his own voice. Morris huffed a laugh, eyes rolling toward the ceiling. Race took the chance to study his belt, smirking again when he realized Morris had no sword. _What an idiot._

“He’s locked up good, Your Highness,” Morris sneered. “Finally got another chance to use those shackles on the walls and boy, they do not disappoint. These helped, too,” Morris lifted his other hand into the flickering light and Race’s breath caught in his throat. Threaded onto his fingers was a series of connected metal loops, laying across his knuckles as he balled his hand into a fist. It was clear what they were for, and Race’s stomach lurched at the implication.

“You _fucking_ coward-“

Morris snorted. “Oscar was right about your distasteful language too, my goodness. Maybe I oughtta throw you in there with the traitor, introduce you to my brother’s favorite brass knuckles.” He mused, nodding toward his hand. “Don’t think your father would mind too much, considering he’s got the princess locked up too-“

Race had had enough. He lunged, leaning down to throw his shoulder into Morris’s midsection; satisfaction spread through him at Morris’s surprised outburst as he stumbled backward. He lost his footing and fell, and Race landed on top of him with a dull thud. Race sat up, gripping Morris’s ribs with his knees as he pulled his arm back and punched him square in the jaw. Morris’s head snapped to the side; Racer’s knuckles ached but he barely felt it as he reached back and hit him again, this one landing on the Delancey’s cheekbone. He lifted his left hand to strike the other side of Morris’s face and was stunned by a sudden blow to his ribs that stole the breath from his lungs. Morris had struck him with the brass knuckles and he doubled over, trying to breathe.

Morris struck again in the same spot and Race felt a _crack_ ; he gasped, grimacing against the sharp pain. He grabbed at Morris’s throat and spit into his face. Morris’s sound of disgust spurred him on and he grabbed for the brass knuckles in his distraction, wrenching them off his fingers and chucking them down the long hall. As Morris wiped his face with his now empty hand, Race reached back with his right hand and grasped Morris’s left thigh as hard as he could. Morris howled in pain, squirming beneath the prince but Race didn’t let up – he dug his fingertips in harder, his left hand reaching down toward his boot when a voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Racer!” The panicked sound came from behind him, and it was confusion that rooted him to the spot. It had been nearly a year since he’d heard anything other than ‘Your Highness’ in that voice. He gulped, still sitting on top of Morris with a firm grasp on his injured leg. Morris whimpered beneath him, eyes glazed over in pain. Disgust settled in his chest at the sight; just like a coward, to give up when he’s lost his advantage. Race felt warm wetness on his fingertips and relished in the satisfaction that he’d managed to reopen the wound. The fact that he could conjure no sympathy for the other man only frightened him a little. “Racer, stop!”

Footsteps were approaching quickly now, but Racer still didn’t move, didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. Albert came into view within seconds, panting as he reached them. Race dragged his eyes slowly up the knight’s form, the pain sharp in his ribs with every ragged breath. He swallowed hard, wondering how in the hell he was going to fight them both at the same time. He felt his heart ache at the thought, but there was no doubt in his mind that he would try, if he had to. Spot needed him.

“Don’t try to stop me, Albert.” Race growled, giving another rough jab at Morris’s leg; he only groaned now, not even fighting back anymore. Albert looked between the two of them, jaw clenched tightly, before he reached down and grasped Race’s shirt, pulling him roughly to his feet. “Hey-“

“You’re gonna kill him, Racer,” Albert said shortly as he let him go. “I won’t let you do that.” Race fumed as he stared in the face of his former friend and wow, the word _former_ sure fit itself in there with no hesitation. Albert stared back and their eyes locked. Race couldn’t read them the way he used to, so it was a complete shock to him when Albert leaned down and grabbed Morris by the collar of his shirt, yanking him upright with no sign of sympathy, either. Morris stumbled, grabbing onto Albert’s forearm for balance before Albert shoved him face first into the stone wall.

Race’s jaw dropped as he watched Albert gather Morris’s hands behind his back with one hand, grabbing the ring of keys with the other. He tossed them to Race, who barely managed to catch them.

“Albert-“

“Go,” Albert said gruffly, moving his other hand to grasp the back of Morris’s neck as he pulled him off the wall. “Get him out. I’ll take care of this.”

Race hesitated for only a moment, overcome with a myriad of emotions. Lingering hate and anger swirled confusingly with gratitude and surprise, and long-standing affection. A stabbing pain from his ribs snapped him out of it, and he grasped Albert’s shoulder meaningfully before he hurried, as quickly as he could manage, down the hall.

The sight of Spot in the dungeons was one that Race knew he would never truly be able to forget. Only faint light from the nearest torch illuminated the horrifying scene. Spot hung by his wrists against the wall of the cell, bloodied head hanging limply to one side. Swallowing against the nausea, Race fumbled with the keys until he found the right one, jamming it into the lock and yanking the bars aside. He fell to his knees beside him, hastily unlocking the shackles around his wrists. Spot fell against him and Race barely supported his dead weight, ribs screaming in pain. He pushed forward until Spot sat against the wall, head still hanging against his chest. Panic rose like bile in his throat and he grasped the sides of Spot’s face, lifting his head as two fingers reached for the place on his neck that would tell him what he wanted to know, _needed_ to know. He let out a shaky breath when he felt the steady pulse under his fingertips.

Race’s head dropped to Spot’s shoulder in relief. He wrapped his arms around the unconscious man, all but sitting in his lap as he tried to control his breathing. Katherine, the fight with Morris, the terror he’d felt when he saw Spot unconscious in the cell – it had taken its toll on his nerves. After a few minutes, Spot stirred, a low grunt in his chest Racer’s only indication that he was waking up.

“Spot,” Race gasped as he looked up, holding his face as gently as he could in his hands. One of his eyes was swollen shut, a nasty gash along his cheekbone giving Race a clue as to how he’d gotten the injury. He searched his face, finding a split bottom lip and a small but deep cut over his other eyebrow – the source of most of the blood. Race brushed a thumb across his uninjured cheekbone, face splitting into a wide smile when Spot’s eye opened. Sudden tears stung at his eyes, surprising him, and Spot frowned, hissing through his teeth when the movement caused him pain.

“Racer,” He murmured, one shaky hand lifting to rest on the side of Race’s face and Race was again stunned by the lightness of his touch. “What’s-“

“It’s okay, shh,” Race soothed, one hand now running over Spot’s tangled hair in a comforting gesture. “Nothing’s wrong, everything’s okay now. It’s over.” Spot hummed in response, dropping his head against the wall. His hand dropped from Race’s face, gliding gently down his side until Race gasped, jerking away from the touch when he reached his ribs. Spot frowned again, more forceful this time.

“Are you hurt?” Race couldn’t stop the laugh at that, broken ribs be damned. “What’s funny?” Spot demanded, sounding almost coherent now.

“You’ve been locked up down here for an entire day, starved and beaten with brass knuckles, and you’re worried about _me_?” The corner of Spot’s mouth quirked up just slightly. He shrugged a shoulder.

“Well, yeah. ‘Course I am.” Race’s eyes sparkled as he shook his head. This man never ceased to surprise him. Race moved his hands to Spot’s shoulders and leaned down, his kiss no more than a brush of lips. He knew it hurt a little as Spot inhaled through his nose, but he felt a hand slip into his hair and keep him there. Race melted against him, relief crashing over him in waves. Only the sound of footsteps pounding toward them made him pull back. He looked over his shoulder to the open cell door just in time to see Jack and Albert skid to a stop, breathing heavily. The look of relief on both of their faces sent warmth shooting through Race’s chest and he looked hopefully at Jack.

“Did you-“

“Yes, Racer,” Jack said steadily, smiling now even as he looked exhausted. “It’s done.”

“Katherine-“

“She’s fine,” Jack nodded, stepping into the cell with Albert behind him. “Sarah’s taken her to her chamber. They’re safe. And Davey, too,” Jack added, anticipating Race’s next question with frightening accuracy. “Your father and the Delanceys are locked up down the hall, guarded by our best men.” Race’s heart thudded at the pride laced in Jack’s voice as he spoke. It was really happening. It worked. He looked excitedly back at Spot and his stomach clenched at the sight. He stood up quickly, grimacing against the pain in his side as he looked at Jack and Albert.

“Can you help me-“

“Outta the way, Racer,” Albert grunted on his way past him. He knelt on Spot’s left, Jack on his right as they hoisted him up. Race backed out of the cell obediently and followed them out of the dungeons. He had half a mind to march down the hall to his father’s cell, but nothing could have pulled him away from Spot at that moment. He asked Jack to take Spot to one of the many unused bedrooms on the ground floor, to avoid the long walk to and up the west tower stairs. They settled him gently on the bed and left. Jack returned a few moments later with Specs in tow. Specs set a tray with two steaming bowls of broth on the dresser while Jack dropped a pile of rags on the bed, setting the bucket of cold water he held on the floor. Race caught Specs’s wrist on his way out, stopping him.

“Thank you, Specs,” He said, voice thick with gratitude. “For all of it.” Specs winked before he left, Jack following behind him.

Race sat carefully on the bed and began to clean Spot’s face with the rags, ignoring his soft sounds of protest. He soaked one rag in the water before ringing it out and settling it over Spot’s swollen eye; nothing could be done about that, just now. He brought the tray of broth to the bed, the spoon halfway to Spot’s mouth before a hand stopped him.

“Can feed myself, Racer,” Spot grumbled, and the irritation in his voice made Race’s heart soar. He grinned, replacing the spoon before handing the bowl to Spot. Spot sat up against the headboard and Race didn’t take his eyes off him as they drank their broth in silence. The warmth spread to his fingers and toes, although that may have had more to do with the fact that Spot was here, Spot was okay – mostly – and his father was finally where he belonged. A knock on the door announced the arrival of fresh clothes and clean rags, which Racer deposited on the bed. He set about the lengthy process of cleaning himself up with the wet rags, waving away Spot’s attempts to help. The water was cold and unpleasant, and he couldn’t help but think that there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for a dip in the hot springs, right about now.

When he finished, he changed carefully into clean pants and helped Spot do the same, much to the blacksmith’s annoyance, before climbing gratefully into bed. It was fully dark now. Race curled onto his uninjured side and laid his head on Spot’s bare chest, marveling over its gentle rise and fall, the steady beat of his heart in his ear. He breathed a contented sigh when he felt Spot’s arm snake around him, careful to avoid his ribs. Spot pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head and Race had a sudden realization. He tipped his head up, grinning.

“Spot.” Spot raised an eyebrow in response. “Do you know what today is?”

“Not really,” He answered, sounding vaguely amused. “Hard to keep track of time down there.” Race kept him in suspense for another moment.

“It’s my wedding day.”

Spot cracked a real smile at that, as Race dissolved into giggles – which subsided quickly, as he was mildly afraid he might puncture a lung if he didn’t stop. When he was quiet again, Spot hugged him a little tighter against him.

“Congratulations, Your Highness.” Race gave Spot’s chest a featherlight smack in response before pressing a kiss there.

“You’re gonna have to get used to calling me Racer, Conlon.”

“Guess so,” Spot agreed, his voice quiet. “Or maybe… Anthony.”

Race was sure his heart stopped in his chest. _Anthony._ His birth name was always accompanied by a title, _Prince_ or _King,_ depending on the conversation. Always associated with the aristocratic parts of royalty he’d loathed since childhood. But hearing it in Spot’s voice, recognizing the affection and hesitancy in his tone – and it was just a name, then – took his breath away. He swallowed hard and nodded, his voice coming out in a whisper.

“Yeah, maybe.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. I can't explain how excited I am to share this. This is the longest fic I have written... ever? Maybe? And I'm proud of how it turned out. You may be asking yourself, can this get any softer? The answer is yes, yes it can. And it will.

Racer didn’t sleep well.

He managed to get in a few hours, but he woke periodically, startled awake by a dream, or the unexpected pain of rolling onto his broken ribs. Spot slept straight through the night, though, and Race was glad for that. He woke early, and he had half a mind to try to find Specs, see if he had any more of that powder from Medda when there was a quiet knock on the door. He reluctantly slid out of Spot’s embrace and crept to the door, opening it quietly. It was Jack, arms laden with drawstring pouches and glass vials. Race led him over to the chaise by the window, gesturing to the small table there.

“What’s all this?” Race kept his voice quiet, although he knew Spot would probably sleep through the intrusion. He sat on the chaise and picked up a vial that held a thick, dark liquid he didn’t recognize.

“Medicine,” Jack answered, sliding into the seat next to him. “From Medda. That one-“ He pointed to the one in Race’s hand. “You drink, and it will relieve your pain for a while. And this one,” He plucked one of the pouches from the table. “Mix it with water to make a paste, and it heals cuts and scratches like that.” He punctuated his statement with a snap, which brought a smile to Racer’s face. Jack went on. “Unfortunately, there’s not much that can be done about your ribs, but at least this should help you feel better. Oh! And this one,” Jack picked up the last pouch and held it out to Racer. “Will help you sleep. It’s not as powerful as the one we used on your father, but it’ll do the trick.”

Watching him, Racer was flooded with affection for his friend. He glanced over his shoulder at Spot’s sleeping form, his chest warming with gratitude. None of this would have been possible without Jack, without Davey. If it weren’t for them, and the untold number of others sprinkled throughout the kingdom, Race would have woken up today as King Anthony. He looked back at Jack, a soft smile spreading when he noticed the bags under his eyes were gone.

“You look like you got some good sleep, yourself.” Race observed, smile widening when Jack flushed and wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Maybe that’s not all you got-“

“Hey,” Jack interrupted, looking meaningfully over Race’s shoulder toward the bed. “Two can play that game, Racer.” Race laughed softly, a hand coming instinctively to rest on his ribs as he did.

“Touché,” He conceded. “How is Davey?”

“He’s fine,” Jack said, leaning back against the armrest. “Sleeping. Had to slip him a little of this-“ He nodded to the second pouch. “To get him to relax. He was so worried about everyone,” The smile that crossed Jack’s face was soft and affectionate, and it warmed Race’s heart that Jack felt he could be so open with him, now. “Sarah had to ask me to physically remove him once they were settled in Katherine’s chamber. I barely kept him from barging in here, next. Had to tell him Spot was awake and you were, ah, nursing him back to health.”

Race dropped his head into his hands, feeling his cheeks burn. Although why, he wasn’t quite sure – everything was out in the open now, at least with his friends. And soon it would be with the whole kingdom. A rush of gratitude overtook him and he leaned forward without warning, wrapping his arms around Jack’s shoulders in a hug that made his ribs ache. Jack was more careful, being sure to avoid his injured side as he held Racer gently. They stayed like that for several minutes.

“Thank you, Jack.” Race said, pulling back. Jack opened his mouth, and Race could almost hear the dismissive reply before he said it. “No, it’s not nothing, so don’t even say it. Jack, it’s _everything._ Do you realize what you’ve done? Forget about this,” Race gestured to himself, to Spot, still sleeping behind him. “You’ve given every man, woman, and child in this kingdom a chance. A chance, Jack, just like Medda gave you.” Jack swallowed hard. Race smiled. “Thanks to you, they all have a chance at a ruler who has their best interests in mind – a ruler who would never call themselves a ruler, but a _leader_. And you risked everything for it. Everything you’ve worked so hard for, your entire life, all on the line for the people. Your people. If it weren’t for you, and Davey, and Medda, none of this would have happened.” Race paused, surprised by the sudden well of emotion in his throat. He touched Jack’s chin, tipping it up to force him to meet his eyes. “You’re a hero, Jack.”

Jack’s jaw was tight as he nodded silently. He never was good at accepting compliments, deflecting them with practiced ease. But Race wouldn’t let him escape this one; he held his gaze, hand moving from his chin to grasp his shoulder. Jack rested a hand on Racer’s, giving it a gentle squeeze in acknowledgement before he moved to stand up.

“You should get some more rest,” He said, eyes flickering briefly to the bed before back to Race. “We should have some idea of the election results by tonight, maybe tomorrow morning. I’ll make sure your meals are brought here, but I’ll tell them you’re not to be disturbed, otherwise.” Jack raised his eyebrows suggestively, dancing out of Racer’s reach as he swatted at him playfully.

“That’s all right,” Race mused, eyes drawn automatically back to Spot. “Neither of us are in any shape for that, right now.” Jack snorted as he reached for the door. “Hey, Jack?” Jack turned, eyebrows raised. Race cleared his throat. “Will you… will you tell Albert…” He bit his lip. “Just tell him how much I-“

“I will, Racer.” Jack nodded, smiling as he turned the knob. “I’ll tell him.”

Race let out a sigh as Jack left, leaning his head back against the chaise for a moment before he stood and gathered the medicines. He mixed the paste and applied it to Spot’s wounds, muttering soothingly when he stirred. He used the paste on his own collection of scratches and cuts, wishing it would work on his ribs – only time would heal those, he supposed. He made Spot take a dose of the pain reliever, then gulped some himself, before mixing the sleeping powder into his water and draining it. He watched as Spot drifted back to sleep, hardly daring to believe this was his reality. He curled against Spot’s side, inhaling deeply as though he could keep his scent forever if he only breathed it in enough. They slept the rest of the day, only waking to eat.

“There’s no way around it,” Race said the next day as he sat up in bed, examining Spot’s face in the early morning sun. “Miss Medda _is_ a witch.”

Spot grunted sleepily in response, frowning against the bright light. The swelling in his eye had reduced drastically. It was still bruised, but even that had faded and he could open his eye without pain. The cuts along his cheekbone and eyebrow looked as though they’d been sewn up, even though the only treatment they’d received was Medda’s secret healing paste. Even Race’s ribs felt better, the pain reduced to a bruise-like ache that only bothered him when touched.

“How are you so awake?” Spot grumbled, an arm darting out to pull Racer back to him. “You should be resting. Your ribs-“

“Will still be broken, whether I rest or not,” Race said dryly, allowing himself to be tucked into Spot’s side again. His warmth was familiar now, soothing even though Racer felt well rested. He smiled at the low growl in Spot’s chest, knowing he was thinking of Morris, of the reason Race was injured in the first place.

“If I ever get my hands on a Delancey again-“ Racer pushed up and cut him off with a kiss, taking extra care even though the cut there had nearly disappeared, too. Spot’s hand slid gently into his hair, drawing a shiver down his spine despite the warmth. Race ran his palm over Spot’s chest as he tilted his head, a soft whimper escaping when he felt nails scratch lightly against his scalp. Spot turned on his side so that they were pressed chest to chest and Race pulled back, desperate to see him. Spot. Race brushed his knuckles along Spot’s cheekbone, down the line of his jaw, against the stubble there. He still couldn’t quite believe his luck, that this man – this gorgeous, strong, fearless, downright scary man – could hold him so gently, look at him with such tenderness in his dark eyes. And not just that he could, but that he _wanted_ to still blew his mind. As he looked, Spot frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Race smiled, shaking his head slightly. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing is wrong, Spot. I’m just so…” He paused, biting at his lip. No point in being shy, now. “I’m just so damn _happy_. I didn’t think it was even possible.”

“Think what was possible?”

“This,” Race gestured between them. “Us. You, here with me. Not even in my wildest- well, okay, maybe in my _wildest_ dreams…” He trailed off, grinning as Spot raised his eyebrows in question. “Maybe I’ll tell you about them, someday. But really,” He ran his hand now down the side of Spot’s neck to his shoulder, trailed his fingertips lightly down his arm as he spoke. “I never thought that someday I’d get the chance to wake up next to you. Get to touch you, like this. And now here you are,” He couldn’t help but smile, and it widened when Spot smirked in return. “And with the election… well, who knows what will happen with that.” A sudden shiver of panic ran through him at the thought that the people could potentially choose his father, and he shoved the thought from his mind. There was almost no chance of that. “But if the election goes the way it should… we could really do this.” He dragged his gaze back up to Spot’s, heart thudding nervously despite the firm grip Spot still had on him. “Be together.”

“I’d like that,” Spot said quietly before the hand in Race’s hair tightened; Race tipped his face up, eyes fluttering closed as Spot leaned in to kiss down the line of his throat. “I’d also like to hear about those dreams…” He murmured as he moved back up his neck, causing Race’s heart to pound for an entirely different reason.

“Some of them are more like daydreams, really…” Race said airily.

“Tell me.” Spot’s lips were at his ear now and he bit his lip, barely suppressing a grin.

“…you know that desk in your office?”

The rest of the morning was spent in slow, lazy exploration, feeling like they had all the time in the world, now. They took their time learning new things about each other, which actions prompted which responses. Race discovered that Spot _really_ liked to keep a hand twisted into his curls. And Racer had almost decided that he preferred the soft sounds Spot made; at least, until he’d do something that caused Spot to gasp his name against his neck and he’d change his mind again. The sun shone brilliantly through the window by the time they separated, panting and satiated. Someone had delivered breakfast to their door, and they ate in bed before setting the tray aside and curling up again. Race knew eventually Spot would have to return to the forge, and they would have to settle into a new routine. But that could wait, at least for a day; for now, he wanted to keep Spot all to himself, tucked away in this pocket of bliss. He nuzzled against his chest, eyes drifting closed. He was almost asleep again when Spot’s voice startled him.

“Racer,”

“Hmm?”

A quick kiss to tangled curls. “Happy birthday.”

After lunch, Spot reluctantly extracted himself from Race’s embrace to go bathe. Neither of them had managed to clean up properly since the spring, and Race had suggested they take advantage of the perks of castle life while they could. He wasn’t sure what his future held, exactly, as far as those luxuries were concerned. Race returned to their room first, and he was lounging on the chaise when there came a knock on the door.

“Come in,” He called, plucking a grape from the leftovers of their lunch. Katherine stepped inside, and he nearly choked in his haste to reach her. He almost tackled her in a hug which she returned, laughing. He pulled back, still holding her shoulders to get a look at her. She looked beautiful, well rested and relaxed. He could find neither bruise nor scratch on her face and neck, and relief flooded through him that there was apparently a limit to his father’s cruelty. He hugged her tightly again before leading her over to the chaise. “How are you?” He couldn’t help but ask. It had been too many days since he had laid eyes on his sister.

“Wonderful,” She answered warmly, taking his hands in hers. “And you, birthday boy? You’re looking much better.” At Race’s questioning eyebrow, she explained. “I stopped in to see you yesterday, but you were both sleeping.” He felt his face warm, but Katherine didn’t even seem to notice. Race treasured that about her; the way she accepted him with no questions asked, no hesitation, no limits to her love. He grinned.

“Ribs aside, Kath, I’ve never been better.” She squeezed his hands.

“And that’s all I ever wanted for you,” Her eyes sparkled as she took him in, and it occurred to Racer that she looked healthier than he’d ever seen her, too. Her hair was soft and shiny, falling over her shoulders in clean waves; her skin was radiant. She hesitated for a moment, looking contemplative. “I wanted to tell you about the election.” Race’s heart sped up as he raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to continue. “Nothing is official, yet, but… things are looking good.”

“That’s fantastic!”

“All the votes should be recorded by tonight, and we’ll have an official count sometime tomorrow.” She paused. “And I also thought you might want to know that, once it’s official, I will be making some changes to the laws. Tax laws, obviously, and we’re going to implement a minimum age to work. But also… marriage laws.” Race’s head snapped up, eyes wide.

“You mean…”

“I mean, you and I would be free to marry whomever we wish. All the citizens would be, in fact – assuming both parties are of legal age, of course. But there will be no more restrictions based on class… or sex.” She finished quietly, cheeks tinged pink.

Race chewed on his lip as his heart thudded, debating whether he actually wanted to ask the question gnawing at him. “And you’re sure… Father can’t-“

“No,” Katherine interrupted, reaching out to pat Racer’s knee. “He’s done, Tony. Even if a few of the richer citizens vote for him, he has no chance of regaining the throne.” She paused, looking a little nervous, herself. “In fact, that’s part of the reason I’m here.” Race raised an eyebrow in response. “I’m on my way to see him, right now.” His stomach turned.

“But why?” Race demanded, grabbing at her wrist instinctively as though to stop her, even though she hadn’t moved. She sighed.

“I’m going to inform him that regardless of the results of the election, he and the Delanceys will be banished henceforth from this kingdom, effective immediately.” Race’s heart pounded once, hard.

“Really?”

“Really.” She nodded, turning her hand over to squeeze his where it still held her. “I came here first not just to see you, though. I wanted to ask if you want to come with me.”

Race considered this. There was a small, insecure part of him that did want to see his father; wanted to watch his face twist as he told him all about the plot to overthrow him, how many of his trusted knights had betrayed him – how Racer himself had been a pivotal part of it all, along with Spot, his… well, he wasn’t sure what to call him, just yet. But as he imagined the disgust in his father’s eyes, the contempt he would almost certainly have the audacity to display even as he was imprisoned, he recoiled from the thought. His blood boiled again as he thought about how his father had locked Katherine up, only days before and he drew a deep, steadying breath. He looked at his sister, taking in the concern in her eyes as she regarded him, the way she brushed her fingers gently along the back of his hand in a soothing gesture. He marveled at her impulse control, her patience. _She’s just_ so _good_.

“No, I don’t think I should. He was dead to me the moment he locked you in the dungeons.” One corner of her mouth lifted in a small, but appreciative smile. He reached up to grasp a lock of her hair, twirling it idly. “Mother would be proud of you.” He said again, remembering their conversation in the library – had it only been last week? It felt like a fortnight. “ _I’m_ proud of you. This right here? What you’re about to do, what you’re about to face? _This_ is why you will make an amazing leader. No, shh,” He shook his head as she tried to interrupt. “I know it’s not official yet, but it will be, there’s no doubt in my mind. You will be the next leader of this kingdom, and we will _all_ be better for it.” He swallowed, smiling as her eyes glistened. “I’m so lucky to have you.” She leaned forward and wrapped him in a fierce hug which he gratefully returned.

Spot entered then, cursing softly when he realized Race wasn’t alone.

“Sorry, I can go-“

“No,” Race said immediately, releasing his sister and gesturing at Spot to join them. “No, you stay.”

“Yes,” Katherine agreed, nodding. “I want to thank you too, Spot.” She stood as he cautiously approached, and Race snorted at the shock on Spot’s face when Katherine drew him into a hug. He hesitated for only a moment before he returned it, looking over her shoulder at Race with an expression of surprised amusement. She pulled back and sat back down, smiling as Spot sat on Racer’s other side. “None of this would have been possible without you two.”

“It was my pleasure, Your Hi-“ Spot broke off, clearing his throat as he flushed slightly. “Sorry, I’m not sure what to call you, now.”

“Just Katherine,” She replied warmly, her smile blinding. Race knew he’d never tire of seeing his sister so blissfully happy. And he knew he’d be eternally grateful to anyone and everyone who’d had a hand in making it happen. He laced his fingers with Spot’s; his heart fluttered when he felt Spot squeeze gently. Race’s eyes lingered on their intertwined hands for a moment before he remembered something.

“Spot,” Spot turned to him. “Do you really want to…” He paused, trying to decide how to phrase the question. “What we talked about the other night… at the springs?” Spot’s eyebrows shot up. Race hurried to clarify. “About the orphanage. I think we have a chance here to make that happen.”

“Make what happen?” Katherine asked curiously, looking between the two of them. Race looked at Spot, waiting for him to respond. Spot’s mouth opened and closed a few times, shock and hope swirling in his eyes. After a moment he closed his mouth, swallowed, and nodded.

“Yes,” His voice was a little hoarse and he cleared his throat. “Yes, I would like to do that.” Race’s face split into a wide smile as he turned to look back at his sister.

“We have some ideas.”

By Thursday, all the votes had been tallied. Katherine had received the overwhelming majority, many accompanied with enthusiastic anecdotes from grateful citizens. Surprisingly, Race had racked up nearly a quarter of the votes, which warmed his heart even as he was glad Katherine had won. Those couple of days had passed in a blur as he and Spot healed, and Spot went back to the forge to resume something like a normal schedule. Racer had let him go, albeit reluctantly; he knew they couldn’t stay in the castle forever, ignoring their responsibilities. Although what those responsibilities _were_ exactly, he wasn’t yet sure. Things were changing in Manhattan, and the air was charged with possibility and hope – two things many of their citizens had never experienced under Pulitzer’s rule.

Racer was back in his tower room, looking peacefully out the window to the grounds where Les was running, laughing with a page boy his age, when someone knocked on the door.

“Come in,” He called over his shoulder, turning. Jack came in and crossed the room to join him at the window. “Hey, Jackie.” He greeted him, reaching out to pat his shoulder. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I have news,” Jack replied, cocking his head as he grinned at him.

“Good news?”

“Katherine’s officially made me her right hand.” Race gasped.

“Jack! That’s incredible! And well deserved,” He added, pulling his friend in for a hug. Jack patted his back, and Race was again struck by just how incredibly content his loved ones all were, now. The cloud of Joseph Pulitzer had lifted for good, and they were basking in the light of his absence.

“Thanks, Racer,” Jack’s eyes were sparkling in that mischievous way that made Race grin instinctively.

“What are you up to?”

“Oh, nothing,” Jack said, feigning nonchalance as he looked out the window. A quick smile flashed when he caught sight of Les. “Just wanted to stop by before I head into town.” He paused, glancing back at Race. “Gotta swing by the forge.” Race’s eyebrows shot up.

“Do you?” Jack nodded.

“Thought maybe you’d want to accompany me,” He paused, grinning in that way that was his and his alone. “For old time’s sake.”

Race nodded enthusiastically.

“Let’s go.”

Racer couldn’t count the number of times he and Jack had walked to town together since they were children, but this one felt different. Although the official announcement had yet to be made, Racer felt weightless as they made their way through the gates; he was no longer royalty, no longer a prince in this realm. He was free to do as he wished. Katherine intended to completely rework their class system to benefit all, and she had grand plans for how to fund these ideas. She didn’t even want to be known as a queen, although she hadn’t quite decided yet what her title would be.

Spot was working near the edge of the street when they arrived. Race watched him as they approached; it wasn’t often he got to see him work, as he was usually waiting for him in the dusty office. He looked surprised but pleased to see them and he set his tools aside, reaching for a rag to wipe his face.

“Jack, Racer,” He greeted them, nodding at Jack, winking slyly at Racer. Race swallowed as his stomach flipped. He wondered if that would ever go away. “Wasn’t expecting you.”

“Well, we just came to share some good news,” Jack said, folding his arms casually across his chest as he nodded a greeting to Tommy, who was rather obviously eavesdropping. “And to offer you a job.”

Spot huffed a laugh. “No offense, Kelly, but the last time I worked for you, I ended up in jail.” Jack laughed.

“That’s fair, although that’s not the only place you ended up,” He said suggestively, looking between Spot and Race – Race flushed and kicked Jack in the shin. “Ow. Anyway,” He continued, inching a little further away from Race. “We need someone to take over running the boys’ orphanage, now that Snyder’s been arrested. Heard you might be interested.”

Spot’s jaw actually dropped then, and Racer couldn’t hide his joy any longer. “It’s true, Spot.” He said quietly, taking a step closer to him. He was careful not to appear too affectionate, though; they were still in public, and not _everything_ was out in the open, just yet. “He’s gone. They’re all gone. My father, the Delanceys, Snyder. It’s over. We won.”

Spot swallowed. It seemed he was unable to find sufficient words as he nodded, looking dazed. Race watched as Spot looked over his shoulder, eyes roaming over his journeymen as they pretended to work. Race’s stomach twisted with nerves. He desperately wanted Spot to accept the job, not only because it meant they would work closely together for the foreseeable future. He wanted to see Spot doing something he loved, something he had a genuine passion for – something that would help countless children in the days and years to come. But he couldn’t make the decision for him. Jack seemed to sense that they needed to have a conversation, and he cleared his throat.

“I have a few more things to do while I’m here,” Race fought back the urge to laugh at that; smooth, Jack. “But I hope to see you tomorrow, Spot.”

Spot turned back to face them. “Tomorrow?”

“For the first planning meeting with the advisors.” Jack said as though it were obvious. “Racer and I will be there, too. Got a lot of decisions to make.” He nodded to Mush, who was watching them curiously, before taking a step back. “Oh, and you might consider taking a room in the castle. You know, so you’re not late for the meetings.” Jack clapped Race on the back with a wink that sent heat rushing up the back of his neck. “He’s all yours, Racer.”

Racer watched him go, suddenly nervous to turn back to Spot. He knew this was a huge decision, a huge responsibility for him to take on. A huge change. Although, he reasoned, running the forge was a serious responsibility, too, and he’d accepted it dutifully. But this was different; this wasn’t growing up to assume the role he’d been trained for. This was branching out, trying something new that hadn’t been done before. Racer couldn’t blame him for being scared. Hell, he was scared, too. And not just of the jobs; he was scared that Spot might retreat into the comfort of his routine, his identity as the gruff, sarcastic blacksmith who was never soft with anyone. But when he turned to look at him, some of his worry melted away. The tenderness was there, in Spot’s eyes, as he studied Racer on the street.

“So it’s really happening?” Spot asked, his voice quiet, private. Race could feel the eyes of the journeymen on them. Some of the citizens milling through the streets had paused, crowding together in small groups as they took in the sight of the prince, unarmed and unaccompanied by a protective knight. Things were changing, all right.

“Yes.”

Spot hesitated. “All of it?” Race nodded. “So you and I…” Spot trailed off, gesturing vaguely between them with a hand. “We could… and no one would care?”

Race lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Some people might still care, but it wouldn’t be against the law if that’s what you’re asking.” He took a half step closer to him, biting his lip. “And… I don’t care. I don’t care what anyone thinks about us… except you.” He gulped, willing himself to look into Spot’s eyes. “It’s your choice, Spot.”

Race’s heart pounded as he watched Spot mull it over, taking in the scene around them. Tommy, Elmer, and Mush had halted their work and were unabashedly watching them. Spot swallowed, looking back up at Racer. “The job?”

“All of it.” Race’s hand twitched. He desperately wanted to reach out and touch him, but this wasn’t Medda’s, this wasn’t the forest, this wasn’t their borrowed bedroom in the castle. This was Spot’s real, everyday life, and he wouldn’t take that choice away from him. Spot held his gaze for a long moment before the corner of his mouth quirked up and he took a step toward Racer. They were now officially standing too close to be having casual conversation, and Race heard whispers in the streets behind him.

“It’s Sean.”

Race sucked in a breath. “What?” His voice was a whisper, lost to the sounds of the streets. Spot smirked, reaching down and lacing their fingers together. Race held on tight, afraid he may lose his balance without it.

“Sean. It’s my real name. No one’s even used it since I came here, since Kloppman gave me the name Spot. But if I’m changing professions…” Race’s heart leapt.

“So that’s a yes?”

Spot nodded his head once, eyes sparkling in the midday sun. “Yes, Racer.” A pause. “To all of it.”

Before Racer could wrap his head around what that meant, Spot’s other hand slid up, up into his hair at the back and pulled him down for a kiss in front of God and everyone. Race’s free hand trembled as he brought it to cup Spot’s jaw, returning the kiss with an eagerness he hoped would convey his joy, his relief. They pressed into each other right there in the street, and Racer smiled against his lips when he heard the whistles and whoops from the forge, Jack’s voice unmistakable among them. He didn’t even care that the whispers behind him had risen in volume and were punctuated by surprised exclamations. What did it matter to him, what those people thought? He was no prince, no one special anymore, except perhaps to his friends and family. _And Spot._ Racer pulled back as the sounds died down, but he didn’t move his hand from Spot’s face. He stroked his thumb across Spot’s cheekbone, over the cut that was just a small scar, now.

“Call me Anthony.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys!! I had SO much fun writing this, I kinda can’t even believe it. I’m a little sad that it’s over, to be honest, I’m not sure I’m ready to leave this universe yet. I’m not opposed to writing an epilogue at some point, and potentially the missing Sprace scenes from chapters five and six (and eight whoops), but for now I’m just glad to have finished this.  
> I’m incredibly grateful for anyone who clicked, read, left kudos, or a comment; each and every one brought a huge smile to my face, so thank you! The fact that anyone besides myself likes/wants to read this story is just mind-blowing to me and I’m so glad you came along with me on this ride. And to anyone who eventually stumbles across this completed fic, thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed it! OH! And if you're an artist/know one who takes commissions get at me on tumblr (amscraypunk) cause I need a drawing of Prince!Racer and Blacksmith!Spot like I need air, ya feel me? Or hey, just hit me up on tumblr anyway


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